


Star in the Dust

by WickedScribbles



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action, Adorable Grogu | Baby Yoda, Adventure & Romance, Because they don't know his name is Grogu, Communication issues but they work on it, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Din likes being fucked but is also an amazing top, Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Explicit Consent, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Force Healing (Star Wars), French Kissing, Good Parent Din Djarin, Grogu gets a nickname, Grogu | Baby Yoda Being a Little Shit, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, Multiple Orgasms, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overstimulation, Pet Names, Protective Din Djarin, Protectiveness, Quickies, Romance, Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut, Soft Din Djarin, Sweet/Hot, Tags May Change, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28178067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedScribbles/pseuds/WickedScribbles
Summary: You're working as a server in a dusty little cantina when the bounty hunter walks in and turns your world upside down. Offering you a life of adventure - as long as you agree to care for the odd foundling he keeps at his side - you find yourself getting closer to him than you ever would have imagined.Rated explicit for romance, sex, you know the drill.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader
Comments: 126
Kudos: 426





	1. The Three Questions

You feel the swell of tension in the air three seconds before you know why. The back of your neck tingles, and goosebumps lace your forearms despite the heat. There was a change that you couldn’t see yet -- the ozone that came before lightning -- or the aggression between two thugs right before they went at each other’s throats. 

That’s almost what you think it is when the cantina goes dead silent. Folks out here were bitter, jaded. Life isn’t what it was in the Capital. Though the glittering lights of Canto Bight could be seen on the horizon, none of the good fortune carried on the wind. Frustrations were often vented with a bar brawl, a shouting match, a good stabbing. Violence equals excitement. 

That explained him, then; the Mandalorian. 

All kinds could be found on the Outer Rim, but that wasn’t always a good thing. Honest people struggling, dishonest people stealing, downright evil people murdering and swindling. You don’t claim to know everything about Mandalorians, but can discern that this one is sporting a weapon in every place that isn’t covered in beskar, and then some. He also appears to be alone. A bounty hunter, then. No wonder half the place looks scared out of their skins. You know the type that frequents this place. He could be after at least ten of them. 

You keep cleaning the counter, trying not to stare. Conversation returns to a low buzz moments after he enters, but things aren’t quite back to normal. Laughter is more forced, eyes are still darting. Swigs of spotchka go down faster, as if being a little less sober will help. Conversations switch from Basic to native tongue, and you catch snatches of them here and there as you move to pick up dirty plates and cups. 

_Who do you think he’s after?_

_Isn’t me._

_Ma’tuna took off for Bespin two weeks ago. Think it’s him?_

_Hope he leaves soon. Giving me chills sitting there like that._

Huttese, Kaleesh, Rodian. A few more peppered in for good measure. You translate in your head, though sometimes you wished you didn’t. Each language has such unique syntax, an ebb and flow of their own rules, phrases, meanings -- but the people who speak them can be cruel. Four years studying xenolinguistics on Coruscant means you hear every single comment on how you look better suited to whoring than cleaning tables in a dark cantina. And every variation on that phrase. Two years here, and it still gets to you. You try not to let it show. 

Twenty minutes pass before it occurs to you that you haven't offered the Mandalorian anything. _Stupid_ , you think in frustration. Your boss, an obnoxious little Sullustan man, will dock your pay if you aren't greeting customers and pushing them to buy one drink, at least. Even if those customers are intimidating and look like they could kill with a glance. You think of the savings you have stashed away -- still wildly far from affording a ship to get off this Maker-forsaken planet. You need every credit you can earn. Catching Dua Neb’s judging black eyes from across the cantina, you sigh, ducking and weaving your way to the beskar-clad newcomer. 

It feels like moving underwater as soon as you realize that he’s looking right at you. You can’t tell where his eyes are, but the helmet snaps up when you get about six feet away. You’re sure he’s studying you intensely. _What's the matter with me?_ You think. You've walked up to customers more frightening than him before. Then again, none seemed to have such quiet confidence. 

“Hello sir,” you start in your usual server’s tone, and kick yourself. You’re not sure why, but you wanted to be a little more casual. To show him that you had a brain. You could do more than spout the script, unlike half of the girls that tended to work this low-paying job. “Can I offer you something to drink tonight? Our special of the evening is --” 

“No.” He -- and thank goodness you guessed that he was a man through the beskar -- cuts you off, but his tone isn’t harsh. People are staring now, like they can’t believe that you dared to approach the Mandalorian -- and you’re starting to wonder why you did, too. Dua Neb be damned. Certain that a flush is creeping up your neck, you nod and smile. “Of course, sir. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” You back away, feeling the whole bar’s eyes on you. 

“Wait.” A one-word command holds you in place. “There is something you can do.” _Kriff_. What does he want from you? There might as well be a spotlight shining on you now. What is the cantina waiting for, a backflip? He shifts forward, pulling something from a small pouch on his belt. Once placed on the table in front of him, a hologram and chain code float above it, rotating. 

A bounty puck, you realize. The image isn't crystal clear, but you recognize the scowling face. She's the other server, Shassi, the new girl who works the late shift. In fact, she was supposed to relieve you about half an hour ago. You're surprised that the Mandalorian distracted you enough that you forgot about clocking out. Had he known when your coworker should have been here? Clever. 

Seeming to study your reaction, he asked, “Do you know where I can find her?” 

You don't know much about her, really. You know that she leaves the counters dirty, and puts your boss in a shitty mood for you to deal with the next day. She's never said much to you, and you prefer it that way. Seems full of herself. And of course, she’s beautiful in a way that makes you sure that she knows it. 

You're about to tell the Mandalorian that when a _bam_ and the shattering of glass makes you look away instinctively. The bounty hunter in front of you has leapt to his feet, hand on his blaster, and in the next moment you see why -- someone is making a run for the door. The figure is cloaked, but a striped lekku protrudes from the hood. You know instantly who it is; the night shift girl, Shassi. 

Turning back to tell the Mandalorian this, you find that you're too late. In a span of seconds, he's hurtled over the table after her. The relative silence of the bar _explodes_ , people shouting as he reaches for her with more of the same deadly speed. You can't tell who they're rooting for. You're frozen in place, wishing you could get out of the way of what is sure to be a bloody struggle. 

Shassi brings her right arm out of her cloak to reveal a blaster of her own and fires. The shot clangs off of his beskar breastplate and hurtles toward the ceiling, causing people to duck and scream. A few scramble for the door, but more stick around, curious to see how this will end. Mando knocks the blaster away like a toy and pins her arm to the nearest table -- with a shriek, Shassi brings her knee to his groin hard, teeth bared like an animal. Even from here you can hear the Mandalorian’s strangled sound of pain, but to his credit, he doesn't let go of her. 

You see his grip on her wrist tighten, and that only angers her. Shassi's hood has fallen to her shoulders now, and you can see sweat beading on her brow and lekku. It seems like she's given in when she makes a sudden move for something strapped to her waist. You suck in a breath, but the bounty hunter catches her other arm and pins it, making her yelp. A dagger clatters to the floor, glittering and deadly. _Thank the Maker_. You've become invested in this fight. Maybe because you're getting paid to stand there and watch it, now that you have to work Shassi's shift. The Mandalorian brings his knee to Shassi's back, pinning her face to the table. One hand has bound both of her wrists, and you can see tears standing in her eyes. 

"Surrender." His tone is quiet, but the whole cantina hears. 

She doesn't look at him, or you, or anybody when she gives her answer. 

" _Okay,_ " She whispers. 

Your heart is pounding in your chest as he shackles her wrists and escorts her out. As soon as it started, the fight was over. You should be relieved, but you’re still high on adrenaline. Perhaps it was that last look the Mandalorian cast you before he walked out, Shassi the criminal in tow. You stare at the vacant door for longer than necessary. But then Dua Neb barks at you to get started on straightening the room, and just like that, your life is back to normal. 

\-----

After cleaning up the mess, the second half of your double shift drags on. You dread the coming days of nonstop doubles. How long will it be until a replacement can be found? Your exhaustion deepens thinking about it. Shifts at the moisture farm will have to be moved around. Hopefully they'll understand. And then there's the commissions you take repairing the odd mech and speeder -- how will those be affected? All because Shassi had to be an outlaw. 

Your eyelids droop as you half-dream scenarios of her wrongdoings. Silly things, like riding a herd of bantha through a city and getting charged for reckless endangerment. You find yourself giggling. The sun is coming up now, and only a few patrons remain, then none. With one hand holding a cleaning rag and the other propping up your chin, you don't realize that you're sleeping there until you hear a voice speaking.

"Miss? Ma'am?"

Your head plunges toward the counter as you startle awake, heart racing. The Mandalorian from before is right in front of you. 

"H-hi," you croak at him, hoping you don't have drool on your face. "How can I help you, sir?" 

He's silent for a beat that makes you think he's taking you in again. Your heart sinks, knowing how disheveled you have to look right now. "I realized that I didn't compensate you for the information you provided last night."

"Informa--? Oh. You mean Shassi." You're still bitter about her. Then it clicks, as he's reaching for a pouch of credits. "Wait -- _compensate_? Sir, I didn't do anything." 

"You would have, if she hadn't shown up at that moment. And you don't have to call me sir." Are you crazy, or has the slightest tinge of amusement entered his voice? 

"Ah. Okay. Sorry." 

"If you won’t take it for information, take it for the bar. It was looking rough after last night. Let this be my apology." His gloved hand presses the pouch into yours, and the pouch is heavy. Like, a months'-worth-of-bar-wages-heavy. No wonder he's sporting full beskar. 

Without thinking, you swear out loud. Who cares, you're the only ones there anyway. " _Osik! Vor entye, beroya._ " 

His whole body goes still as if you've struck him. Your eyes dart up to his helmet, looking for answers, and find nothing. 

"I--" You gulp but your throat is the desert, wondering what you did to upset him. "Did I do something wrong?" 

" _Gar... jorhaa'ir Mando'a_?" His words are hesitant, almost as if he hasn’t spoken this tongue in some time. Or he’s pissed at you. 

Ah. You were so exhausted that you'd slipped into his language and offended him. 

"I -- I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to offend you, I'm -- I studied linguistics on Coruscant and sometimes I slip into another language without meaning to --" You twist the rag in your hands, throat tightening with embarrassed tears. "If I'm tired, or upset. It's stupid --" 

"I'm not offended." The helmet tilts, and you can't help but think of a curious porg. "Just intrigued. You apologize too much." 

"Sorry," You blurt out before you can help it. He's probably rolling his eyes at you, but doesn't comment. 

"I haven't heard Mando'a spoken since I was a boy. They teach it on Coruscant?" He shifts closer, and you notice he's pulled up a seat at the bar to speak with you. _You._

"It wasn't all that popular," You admit, hoping he can’t see your heartbeat galloping in your throat like a taun-taun. "But yes. I chose it as one of my specialized historical languages. There's a lot of culture there; it was very fascinating." 

"Hmmm." He tents his gloved fingers together and looks off, as if considering something. He's silent for so long that you go back to cleaning the counter, to have something to do with your hands. 

At last, he asks, "How many?" 

You struggle to figure out what he means, then it hits you. How many _languages_. "Ah, ten or so. But I can hold a conversation in a handful of others." You mostly get practice in what the criminals speak, but you aren’t sure if he wants to know about that or not.

Footsteps echo from the staircase behind you before he can reply, and Dua Neb appears at your elbow. 

"Miona," he simpers, and you hate the way your name sounds in his mouth. "You haven't offered anything to this most prestigious patron?" 

You wish you could kick him. You wish you didn't depend on this greasy little man for a good part of your income. Gritting your teeth, you prepare to apologize. The Mandalorian speaks first. 

“Actually, she has.” His tone is short, and you can tell even through the modulator that he’s not pleased with Dua Neb either. Your boss shoots him a look of poorly concealed confusion, and you’re sure that your expression isn’t much different. 

“I’m sorry?” Dua Neb’s voice is nothing but polite, but his eyes are poisonous. He shuffles closer to you than necessary, and you feel your body stiffen with unease. A pay cut is coming out of this, you're sure of it. 

The Mandalorian stands, towering over both of you. 

“Yes,” the _beroya_ fixes him with one last steely glare. “You should be.” Now it’s Dua Neb’s turn to stiffen, in surprise and outrage. You’re not sure what the Mandalorian is talking about, but hearing him address your boss like this is a pleasure in itself. 

In a much softer way, he adds, “This way... Miona.” 

He makes your name sound like music. 

Still clutching the rag as if it’s the only thing keeping you attached to this planet, you trail behind him and leave the cantina. You almost wish you would’ve turned to see the look on Dua Neb’s face, but don’t give him the satisfaction. Having to lick his boots later will almost be worth it. 

You continue to follow for a few minutes, trailing through the morning markets and loosely populated streets. It’s not yet noon, but the sun is blazing, and you wish you would have known to bring some cover. Your sun cloak is at home -- or what counts as a home, anyway. Where you sleep and keep a few possessions on this overheated, miserable planet. You’re not sure where the Mandalorian is going, or if he even knows himself. 

Finally, he stops on the outskirts of the town. Maybe you should be uneasy about being so far out of your way with this stranger, but it’s the opposite. Besides, if he had a problem with you, he probably would have dealt with you by now. _Like Shassi. Bent over the table in front of everyone, manhandled --_

__

__

_Shut up. Shut up._

The _beroya_ faces you, clearly wanting to say something but pausing as if wondering how to phrase it. In the far distance, you can see a ship, and wonder if it’s his. 

He sighs, and it makes the helmet’s voice modulator crackle. His arms cross over the beskar breastplate. “Has he hurt you? That man?” 

The question lands like a punch to the chest. Your hand comes up to rub the back of your neck, and you’re not sure if you feel self-conscious or pleased that someone notices your discomfort. Between last night’s brawl, the conversation, your exhaustion, and walking out on Dua Neb, you’re not sure what’s real anymore. 

“Um, he -- n-no. He’s an ass, but he’s not -- no.” You can feel your cheeks redden past the sun's heat. It's nice that he cares. 

“Okay. Next question.” You weren’t aware that more questions were coming. “Are you happy here?” 

He couldn’t be serious. You’d met him yesterday, had one and a half conversations, and he was asking _more_ deep personal questions about your wellbeing? You were dreaming -- that was it. Shassi had skipped work again and you’d had to cover for her. You haven’t slept in so long that this was a hallucination, some mind-fantasy. 

And of course, your answer had to have been obvious to him. “No.” 

He goes quiet again, looking down to fiddle with an invisible speck of dirt on the barrel of his blaster. “Would you... like to leave?” 

“I…” The answer is most definitely yes. But you can’t afford to run off with a bounty hunter, if you’re ever going to make it on your own someday. Sure, the pouch he gave you was a welcome push in the right direction. Yet you’re pretty sure Dua Neb’s fired you. As soon as the Mandalorian leaves, you’ll have to beg for double shifts at the moisture farm and advertise yourself for tech commissions more urgently than ever. Hopefully you can find odd jobs in the meantime, too. All to scrape by, and save a little. 

“I can pay you,” he adds, as if your thoughts were spoken. “A percentage of my bounty. It isn’t a fortune, but it will pay more than your jobs here.”

“How do you know about my other jobs?” You press.

“You're dead on your feet,” the Mandalorian almost scoffs. “That’s not something that comes from bussing tables, though I'm sure the Sullustan made it more difficult than necessary.” You like how he talks about the cantina in past tense. 

Okay. You’re excited now, but you need to think. Why is it so hard to think? It is because you finally, finally have a way off of this planet? Because this _beroya_ actually seems to be a kind person, underneath the beskar and the helmet? It wouldn’t be hard to leave. You have no friends here, and few possessions. You could… disappear. 

“What do you need me to do?” You say. This sounds too good to be true. 

The Mandalorian glances at the ship in the distance. “It would be easier to show you.” 

Later -- ages and ages later -- he tells you that he never would have left you stuck on Cantonica even if you had said no. But you don’t know that right now. Brimming with excitement and curiosity, you follow the Mandalorian once more, with no idea what awaits you.


	2. The Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: panic attack, implications of past trauma, unwanted sexual advances from strangers. Stay safe, readers!

For such a shiny man, his ship is rusty. Not that you mention that. You can see how it would have been a beauty in its time. They don't make them like this anymore, and you give the hull a comforting pat as you board the ramp. You haven't flown since… well, since you became stranded on Cantonica. That doesn't mean you hold a grudge on the things. There's not a lot of opportunity to work on space vessels for you, and you're sure there's things you could fix on this well-worn little gunship.

"This is the _Razor Crest_ ," the Mandalorian tells you, noticing how you're taking in the details. Maybe this is what he needs you for. It would make sense to have a mechanic on hand. You're sure it gets run hard, and with its age, it must need maintenance almost twice as often as a newer ship. "Still manages to fly, mostly."

"Is that why you're hiring me?" You venture, walking inside and taking a look around. It's nice enough, from what you can tell. Standard fare, and clean at least. No personal touches, but what did you expect? The Mandalorian is still walking, and you try to keep up. "For repairs?" You've followed him deeper now, almost to the ladder that leads up to the cockpit.

"Ah - no. Though I could use your help with them from time to time, if you're willing." His back is to you, and he seems to be hesitating over something. You're puzzled now, and a little frightened. Were you wrong to trust your instincts about him? You've always considered yourself pretty good at this sort of thing.

A beat of silence permeates the air between you before he speaks again.

"How are you with children?" _Children?_ Nothing on this ship suggests the presence of them.

"I enjoy them," you say with uncertainty, wringing your hands. You don't see many in your daily life, but your statement was true. There's one child in particular that you enjoy making faces at in the market, to the annoyance of his mother. His giggles are well worth her glares.

He turns back to you, with a nod that seems to be more for himself than for you.

"Good. Then I have someone to introduce you to." A button is pressed on the door behind him, and with a quiet _hiss_ , it raises. You catch a glimpse of a plain bunk and hear a quiet cry, like that a baby would make out of fussiness. To your surprise, the _beroya_ kneels down and speaks softly to whoever - or whatever - is inside.

"Hi. Yeah. I'm sorry, I know. I left and came back and then left again. But I brought a friend. Do you want to meet a new friend?"

Another small squeak. He scoops up the resident of the hidden bunk and finally turns around to show you... something.

It's tiny, green. Huge brown eyes fixate on your face with curiosity. It sucks one little claw as it assesses you, the new "friend". The ears are big enough for you to stick a hand inside. It would almost be bald, except for the lightest fuzz on its head.

It should be ugly. So why is it so… _cute_?

You understand why the Mandalorian was speaking to it with such obvious affection.

"This is my kid," he says.

Well. You weren't expecting _that_.

Your expression shows it, because he backtracks. "Not _my_ kid. He's a foundling."

Oh, okay. That's a relief. You were starting to form a mental image of him with the same features, and it wasn't the best ten seconds of your life.

"What do you call this little cutie?" You sing, and the baby reaches out for you. The Mandalorian shuffles to hand him over, and you find yourself grinning like an idiot down at the thing.

He shrugs. "I don't know his name. Just call him 'kid'."

"Blphsssffg," the baby says in agreement, drool dribbling down his chin.

"Huh." You go to wipe the drool away with the tail of your tunic, not even thinking about it being a gross thing to do. It appears that he's got you wrapped around his claw already. "How do you manage to… be his dad and do what it is that you do for a living?"

"With difficulty." The helmet tilts toward you, perhaps amused that the baby is now placing his grubby hands all over your face and giggling. "That's what I hoped you could lend a hand with."

_Intergalactic babysitter._

You find yourself smiling brighter, feeling luckier than ever. Not only do you get to leave the planet you've been stranded on, but your only real responsibility will be to care for this tiny, sweet boy? Yes, please.

"I can handle that."

The Mandalorian sighs, and you can tell it's a sound of deep relief. "Glad to hear it. But I have to warn you - he's - a lot."

"He's a baby," you say, pulling one little hand off of your eye. "They tend to be. Though I've never seen one like him before."

This earns you a quiet chuckle through the helmet's modulator. "He's unique. To say the least."

For a few minutes, the three of you stand there together. The baby looks from you to his _buir_ and back, seeming content. You both watch as his eyes droop, then shut completely. His little body relaxes against you, and his breathing deepens. Making friends is hard work.

"There is one more thing, if you'd be willing." The Mandalorian motions to take the baby back from you, and you comply with as little jostling as possible. He pushes a button on his glove, and a floating crib appears from down the hallway. _Very fancy._

"Of course." Your reply is close to instant, and you hope he doesn't notice your ears getting red. Any more eager and you would've done a salute. _Moron._

"Could you try talking to him in a few languages? See if he... recognizes something? Can say something, even. There's so little I know about him." He gazes down at the child for a few seconds longer before closing the floating crib, seeming wistful. This is the most you've heard him say at once, and you know it must be important to him.

"Everything you've asked of me has been less awful than even one of my jobs on this kriffing planet. So I'm going to keep saying yes, and add a thank you for good measure."

"I'm glad that we can help one another." It's a simple phrase with zero alternate meaning, but the way he says it sends your blood singing. He's standing far closer to you than you'd first realized, now that the baby is gone. You can see him breathing, can smell him. How many people have been this close without fearing for their lives?

 _Enough of that,_ you think sternly. There are other matters to attend to. The most pressing being; you have to round up what's left of your life on this planet.

"I should head back and gather my things," you say. "And tell a few people that I'm leaving."

The helmet nods once. "Sure. Do you need an escort back?"

"That's okay." You'd rather slip back into town unnoticed, and capable though he is, the _beroya_ draws eyes. The sooner you can move on, the better.

"You've done enough for me today," You tell him. "I'll try not to be long."

"No hurry. Say your goodbyes if you need to. We won't be going anywhere."

Maker, there is no way to tell what he's thinking. But you like to believe that he enjoys you beyond the role of goblin babysitter. It's most likely wish fulfillment, you tell yourself.

It's been years since you've been loved, addressed kindly, even embraced by a family member. _No wonder I'm running off with a stranger._ Is this a good idea? You find yourself not caring. Anywhere is better than Cantonica. Even if it means some potential danger. A bad idea or two. Something new.

You swallow down your ill-fated train of psychology and nod, turning back to the exit ramp. "There won't be many, trust me."

With a button pushed on the cuff of his glove, the hatch opens for you. Cantonica is revealed again, in all its dusty glory. No pit appears in your stomach at the thought that you'll soon be losing it, no ache of missing starts in your throat. You're sadder to leave the _Razor Crest,_ with its many repair projects, mysterious pilot, and sweet little stowaway.

As your feet reach the sand, you turn back to the Mandalorian, thinking of something.

"I have one more question," you yell over the rising wind.

"What's that?"

"What do I call you? You know my name now."

His beskar glints so bright in the noonday sun it almost blinds you, but you think he makes a fine picture anyway. Cape blowing in the scorching breeze, rifle slung across his back.

"Mando," he replies after a long pause. You have to strain to hear him. "Just...Mando."

\----

You've walked the street to your home a hundred times, but you swear something feels different today. Maybe it's the wicked sunburn that's searing your shoulders and arms, or the fact that your mind isn't consumed with juggling job shifts. There's less to do today than ever, yet it feels like the biggest day of your life.

But it's too quiet. Only one speeder passes you. Out here, not quite on the edge of the desert but still far from the heart of town, there's endless possibility for trouble. At night you can hear blaster shots and shrieks, but there's not much you can do. You could never afford anywhere else.

You see a neighbor and try to greet her, but she completely ignores you. Adrenaline is racing in your veins now, but you try to stay calm. You would feel far better if you were able to see the trouble that you know is happening somewhere close.

Punching in the passcode to your own tiny dwelling, it never even occurs to you that you're the victim.

One glance tells you all you need to know about what happened. It looks like you left the door open during a sandstorm; the place is trashed. Dishes have been flung on the floor and broken. Clothes are scattered everywhere. Footprints intersect over the debris, marking what you've earned as meaningless. You sink to the ground with a noise like you've been punched - the air coming out of you involuntarily. It could almost be a sob, but you're trying to keep it together. You have to collect what you can and meet Mando back at the _Crest_. That's what matters. It'll all be over soon.

You're gathering tunics into a disheveled pile when you hear a noise from the bedroom.

"... she's here," you swear you hear someone say. _Oh Maker_. Your whole body goes cold. Whoever broke in is still here. And they aren't alone. Footsteps pick their way closer to you. You can't hide. They know exactly where you are. This house has three rooms - you're in one, and whoever is in the second is blocking access to the empty room, the washroom. Not that holing yourself up there would do any good.

You should have asked Mando to come with you.

Trembling all over, you place a hand on the holster of your blaster. You bought it for this kind of thing, so why can't you undo the holster?

It's too late. Two men round the corner and you flatten yourself against the front wall, almost as if that would stop them from seeing you.

"Well, _there_ she is," leers the Cloddogran, yellow teeth bared in a smile. "Little Miona. Thought you were skipping town with the Mando. What happened? Get left behind?"

You try to speak, try to breathe, but all that comes out is a fluttering gasp. You're hyperventilating and you can't stop. They're pressing closer to you, predatory. You can't do this again. You can't _do_ this again. The human man mocks your breathing and then lets out a roar of laughter. You're gripping the holster like it's going to actually do some good - the flap has come open now. If only you could _move_.

"That's too bad, Miona," the Cloddogran continues. "If the Mando doesn't want to play with you after all, then we will." His breath is hot on your face, and it makes you want to gag. The other one seems content to hang back and watch.

_Not again, not again, I can't do this again -_

Everywhere in your mind are images of the men who invaded your ship bound for Takodana. If you don't do _something,_ anything, this will be just the same.

He's right on top of you now, despite everything about your posture saying you don't want it.

 _Wedd? Oon't shulu shee,_ " he chuckles. He raises a hand to touch you, and that is the absolute last straw.

Your arm raises almost against your command, and strikes him across the face. Finally, you've thawed. With an outraged hiss, he lurches back, preparing to slap you twice as hard. You duck, and he goes stumbling through your kitchen table.

" _Schutta -!_ "

There isn't much time. The other man has sprung into action and is reaching for his own blaster pistol. Luckily, they can't see your blaster hidden where your tunic folds on your hip, and you finally pull it free of its holster and click the safety off. The blaster comes to life for the first time with a satisfying _whirr_ , but you don't stop to savor it.

The other man fires at you, and pain hits you faster than you have time to avoid the shot. Your upper arm is white-hot and throbbing, but you can't surrender now. There's no telling what they'd do to you. You point at the Cloddogran and squeeze the trigger, and your shot misses by a mile. A hand plants itself roughly in your hair and you scream, turning to see the human man behind you. The butt of his blaster bashes the back of your skull and you feel blood trickle down your neck. He towers over you and is pulling you up by the fistful of hair he's gotten and it's agony, your arm and the searing pain of being lifted like this and the Cloddogran is back and screaming that you'll get yours -

They might kill you, but you still want to hurt them. Remembering Shassi last night at the bar, you pull your knee up with everything you have and _slam_ it into the man's groin. His scream is your victory, but he doesn't let go. It only makes him shake you, harder and harder, like a doll. The Cloddogran holds you steady with one set of arms and punches you in the ribs with another, and air is fiction to you now as black spots decorate your vision.

You were so close to leaving. So close. The blaster tumbles out of your hand to the floor, useless. You feel your eyes slip closed and you go limp, hoping that they'll have mercy on you soon.

But they're not paying attention to you anymore.

There's a shriek followed by a thump, and your eyes fly back open. The Cloddogran is dead on the floor. A smoking hole has been shot almost perfectly through the center of his head, and you look away as it begins to drip. The man lifting you lowers you back to the floor, and you see his expression is one of frozen horror. What could have made him so frightened?

You see a glint of beskar and a second later your _beroya_ is in the room, with his hand around the throat of the man beside you. You get dropped instantly, almost painfully. The man's hands slap against Mando's wrist, doing nothing to break his grip.

"Do you think that terrorizing women is a game?" The Mandalorian says in a voice that can only be described as deadly.

The man's knees begin to tremble. His pupils are blown wide with fear, and he must know it, staring back at his own reflection in Mando's helmet.

"N-no -"

"Then you think that this is right?" One gloved hand gestures at you sharply. Maybe it's better that you can't see the look on his face, because his body is taut with silent fury.

"I -"

"If I so much as hear you _breathe_ ," Mando hisses, "in the same parsec that I am in, I will disintegrate you. Do you understand?"

Tears are flowing down the man's face now, and he nods. "Yes, sir. Of course."

Mando lets go of the man, with one word. " _Run_."

And he does, with not a single look back at his fallen companion.

Mando watches the door for a few seconds before rounding on you, his attitude completely changed. "Miona."

You could get used to him saying your name like that, you think as the edges of your vision start to blur and fade out. You know that you fall to the floor, but only because your view changes. Things start fading and fading until only a pinprick of light remains in the center, and then even that is gone.

\-----

You wake with a start to what feels like two small fingers trying to shove themselves up your nostrils.

"Hey, quit. Quit that."

A pause, and then they continue. You shake your head, hoping whatever it is will leave you alone and let you sleep, but no luck. They're right back at it.

"Yes, I know. She has a face you can touch and I don't. Can you quit being so obnoxious?"

A long, high whine. Giving up, you blink awake and recognize the baby staring at you from his crib.

"Hello, baby," you croak. You reach out and cradle his round cheek. So you're back onboard the _Crest_. It seems that the cot has been pulled out into a hallway. The big eyes blink at you. He almost seems to be hoping you'll close your eyes again so he can continue investigating every inch of your face without interruption. Something shifts near your shoulder, and you look up to see Mando standing near you.

"How do you feel?" He asks.

You struggle to sit up, but everything is sore. You can feel dried blood on your neck and upper back, and a shiver of revulsion runs through you. "Like I got trampled by a drunken bluurg."

He nods. "Sounds about right. And the arm?"

Oh. You bring the fingers on your right hand up to poke under a bandage at the hole that should be there, but only find an angry, bright red mark. You touch it hesitantly, and it's numb around the edges. Pushing a little harder yields the pain of a deep bruise.

"Bacta," Mando explains. "Should feel normal in a few days."

" _Vor entye_." You know how expensive the stuff is. Without it, it might have taken weeks to heal. Seems like the list of ways you owe him is only growing. "Did I...fail my first day of goblin babysitting?"

He huffs out what could be a laugh. "I'll cut you some slack today."

You laugh too, but stop yourself with a pained gasp. Your ribs are definitely bruised.

"Can you stand?" The _beroya_ extends a hand to you.

Sucking in a steadying breath, you brace your right hand on the edge of the cot and lean. It feels like it takes you an hour - especially with him looking at you - but you manage to push yourself into a sitting position. You take his offered hand, swinging your legs over the edge of the cot. He pulls you to your feet and you stumble, feeling your shoulder glance off of his left pauldron.

You murmur an apology, but he says nothing. Neither of you acknowledge that your fingers brush his bare wrist under the glove. Such an ordinary piece of skin on anyone else, but on him it feels almost indecent. You consider apologizing for that, too, but the moment passes.

"I'm sure you want to get cleaned up."

"You would be correct."

"Shower's this way," The helmet nods behind him to the ladder. "Climbing okay?"

You say yes, because it occurs to you in that moment that he's already carried your unconscious body once today. Having him help you off the cot while you were awake was humiliating enough. Mando leads the way, accommodating the fussy child who insisted on coming along, too. There's something endearing about seeing a heavily armed Mandalorian balancing a baby on one hip.

Climbing puts a dull burn in your left arm, but you grit your teeth and remind yourself how much worse it could have been.

Once you've been led through the cockpit and a set of doors to the washroom, Mando reaches for something on a high shelf.

"Here." It's a bundle of your clothes. "I salvaged what I could."

You hold them, speechless. After… _that_ , you had no intention of going back. For any of it. If Cantonica was that desperate for you to leave, then you would listen. The fact that you still had a few precious things to cling to in this new life meant more than you could put into words. _And I know so many of them_.

"That's - I - I don't know what to -" You're stammering, and it seems to amuse him.

"Easy there. Wash up. See you when you're out." You have a brief exchange where he checks that you know how all the knobs and levers work, then he turns to go. Before he can, the baby reaches out and holds your upper arm, tight. It doesn't hurt, but it's uncomfortable.

"Kid, what are you doing?" Mando tries to unglue the little fingers from your arm, but he might as well have sewn himself to you. " _Dank farrik_." You're not sure what's going on, but the baby has his eyes squeezed shut, not about to let you go anywhere. It feels like a whole minute passes before his hand slides away and his body drops against Mando, like he's exhausted himself in one fit of stubbornness. It's bizarre, but the way Mando reacts makes you think that this has happened before.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah," he says, almost a sigh. "He must... really like you."

Alone in the washroom, you revel in the feeling of cool water. It's only when you've started scrubbing your shoulders that you realize that the blaster wound is completely gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Hope you enjoyed the second chapter. :) I'm going to try and keep up a weekly/biweekly schedule. Please let me know what you thought! Hope you all had a good holiday season. Stay safe, and happy new year!  
> -WickedScribs
> 
> Mando'a:  
> Buir - Father  
> Beroya - Bounty hunter  
> Vor entye - Thank you (literally, I accept a debt)  
> Mando'a sites used: mandoa dot org  
> mando words dot tumblr dot com
> 
> Huttese:  
> Schutta - bitch  
> Wedd? Oon't shulu shee. - Well? Don't be shy.  
> Huttese sites used:  
> lingojam dot com slash huttese for dummies  
> completewermosguide dot com slash huttdictionary


	3. The Carbonite

"Is this a magic baby?" You hold the green guy out at arm's length, your legs still shaky from the _Crest's_ takeoff. The baby twists in your arms to look at you, gurgling away with glee. 

Mando flips some switches on the dash, making some adjustments to the flight path. It's a few minutes before the pilot's chair swivels to face you, and you feel ridiculous as your question hangs in the air. _Magic baby._ You have to be crazy. Maybe the blaster mark looked different under the bright lights of the washroom. 

_So why doesn't it hurt anymore?_ A nagging voice asks in the back of your head. _Why do you feel_ great, _head to toe?_

Mando's looking at the two of you now, but his answer isn't helpful. "In a way." 

You bite your lip, not wanting to argue but not satisfied with his reply, either. You had a hole through your arm _hours_ ago. The bacta had helped it scab over, but you swore the baby touching it had eliminated the mark. Not even a scar. 

It must be obvious that you're waiting for an explanation, because he continues. "He has -- abilities, powers. And not a lot of control over them." 

"So when you said he was a handful, normal baby shenanigans weren't what you were referring to." You draw the baby closer to you, scrutinizing. Nothing about him seems powerful, or even unnerving, but you have to ask. 

"Is he dangerous?" 

"No--" Mando says sharply, standing and taking the child from you. There's no way to tell what expression's on his face, but he holds the little one close to his chest plate as if he's been doing it all his life. "He's a good kid. He likes you, too. Trust me, he won't hurt you. Might drive you crazy, though." 

_He's a baby. And he_ fixed _you, didn't he? Come on. Didn't you say that you wanted a little risk, a little adventure?_

So you nod, looking at the two of them. Mando hands the child back carefully, watching you the entire time. The baby doesn't seem to be listening to what you’re saying. He only fusses at being handled so much, his brow furrowing. 

"Hi again, little man," you say. "Thanks for the patch-up." 

" _Bweh!_ " He shouts back, chubby arms waving. 

Mando says nothing, but you imagine he's relieved that you're still agreeing to watch his weird magic son. He turns back to the stars, fiddling with a few more knobs and dials. 

"It'll be awhile before we make it to the next planet. Have to stop off for fuel and supplies. Feel free to walk around in the meantime; it'll be a pretty stable flight." 

You nod, and he swivels back in the pilot's seat. Recognizing the dismissal, you and the baby leave the cockpit, determined to get to know one another. 

And oh, do you ever get to know him. He leaps from your arms the minute you drop from the ship ladder and almost gives you a heart attack. Somehow he rights himself with a neat little midair spin, then _waddles away_ , when you didn't know until that moment that he could even walk. Not only that, but he is fast on those tiny green legs. You spot a flash of green and brown going around the corner of a crate and he's disappeared. 

_Dank freaking farrik_. 

Five minutes in and you've lost him. You consider climbing the ladder again, telling Mando to come down here and find his naughty kid. The idea gets dismissed; what kind of caretaker would you be? So you sigh, dread filling your stomach, and call out. 

"Baby? Where'd you go?" 

No answer, but then you catch the tiniest of giggles from somewhere behind you. _Ohh._ He wasn't running from you -- he wanted to play. Catching on to the game, you start up some theatrics. 

"Oh, I _can't_ find that baby. Where did he run off to?" You scratch your head and look in all directions, seeing the tip of one ear sticking out from behind another crate. You take a few steps towards him, then away, to psych him out. 

The ear tip shakes with his laughter; he thinks he's fooling you. 

"I guess I'll -- _gotcha_!" 

You snatch him up with one big leap, and he lets out a shriek of surprised glee that soon dissolves into hysterical giggles. You blow raspberries on his cheeks with every claim to victory, and soon he’s gasping for air. 

"I found you -- I won -- I got you -- I --" 

You look up to find yourself face to face with Mando, blaster in hand. You stop cold, but the baby's laughter echoes in the silence. 

"I -- thought there was trouble," he explains, seeming almost sheepish. 

Between the adrenaline in your veins from being snuck up on and being caught doing something that must look stupid, your tongue is in knots. "Um. Nope. All good here." 

He nods, probably reconsidering taking such a strange person along on his ship to watch his kid. 

As the two of you watch him walk away, you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. "Your dad is really hard to read, little gremlin." 

"Mmmuh." 

\-------

After hide and seek, you and the kid don't have any trouble getting along. When he finally falls asleep hours later, he's knocked out so hard that you envy him a little. You've been tired for some time -- not everyone can have gremlin energy --but feel like sleep won't come easy. Sure enough, when you try and get comfortable in the hidden cot room that Mando lets you move your things into, you lie there with your eyes open. 

The _Crest_ is just so… _different_. Though it's travelling smoothly as Mando said it would, you know that you're moving through hyperspace. Small creaks and groans from the hull are always reminding you. Not to mention the _whoosh_ and _chug_ of various other mechanisms keeping the vessel powered. A million tiny lights are flickering on and off from the systems. Keeping the door to your new "room" shut blocks the light, but it also makes you feel like you can't breathe in such a small room. 

And the real skank in the scud pie? Space is _freezing_ , far colder than a desert night. The thin blanket from your place on Cantonica isn't enough, and you're wearing your thickest clothes underneath it. You never thought you'd miss being warm this much. 

So you give up and roll out of the cot, blanket and all. You figure pacing around on the lower deck for a while might make you tired enough to get some rest. 

Your footsteps echo down the dim hall. Alone, the shadows seem bigger, a little more menacing. Not that anything about the ship is warm or cozy, but with the kid it was easier to ignore. By yourself, your heart rate starts to increase with the first sparks of irrational fear. You're only a handful of paces past your new "room", but it feels like a mile away. 

Maybe this wasn't the best idea -- it would be easier to go back to the cot. Yeah. To just...huddle up there, no matter how long it took, until sleep came. 

_It's only a ship,_ you remind yourself. _No one here but me, Mando, and the baby. Right?_

Against your thumping chest's wishes, you keep walking. You're going to have to get to know every corner of the _Razor Crest,_ anyway. Better to get over this jumpiness sooner rather than later. Wouldn't want Mando to think you couldn't handle the job. 

With your eyes on the dark corners of the hallway, you don't even see the contents of the crate the kid left strewn right in your path. Your foot catches a piece of armor with a _clang_ and you trip, catching yourself against the metal floor.

_Hope nobody heard that._ With an annoyed sigh, you pick yourself up, taking mental inventory. Nothing sprained, it just hurt a little. You roll your eyes, and as you do, you see -- 

Shassi. It's Shassi. 

You choke on a scream and rear back, kicking the armor into a wall. 

Except... it isn't. It looks like a metal casting of her, in terrible pain. Her eyes are closed tight and her mouth is wrenched open in a soundless scream. Both arms are up as if to shield herself from something. You want to look away, but you can't seem to tear your eyes off of her. 

_Is this what happens to every bounty?_ you find yourself thinking. You knew that coming along with the Mandalorian would mean seeing things, perhaps things even worse than what you’d witnessed in your shady backwater town on Cantonica. _Is she dead in there?_

"Carbonite," a voice behind you says, and you respond with an undignified squeak. _Maker,_ if he could stop being so quiet, that would be great. "That's what she's frozen in." 

It wasn't ringing any bells for you. 

"Is she, you know... _dead?_ " Your voice cracks, and the idea of staring at a preserved corpse is giving you goosebumps. 

"Were the two of you close?" The helmet tilts toward you, and in the back of your mind, you wonder why he hasn't taken it off yet. 

"Not really. It's just a little creepy, thinking about her -- body in the back of your ship." You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders. 

He considers that for a moment, the visor giving nothing away. "She's alive. Look." He points to a set of blinking red lights on the side of the metal block, one slow, one rapid. Again, it's nonsense to you, but you trust him not to lie about it. "It's a hibernation of sorts. Until she… gets collected."

"Oh. Well, good." You feel relieved enough to look back at Shassi. Maybe after she leaves the Crest, the lower deck won't feel quite as spooky. _But there'll be plenty more where she came from,_ you remind yourself with a feeling of gloom. 

You're still considering this -- the unsettling idea that a criminal in will almost always be here, frozen, in the bottom of the ship -- when Mando folds his arms, getting your attention with the movement. 

"I meant to tell you earlier," he starts. 

"Yes?" 

"I didn't follow you back into town because I thought you couldn't be trusted to go alone. Your boss was tailing you. Well -- former boss." 

You aren't surprised that Dua Neb would have it out for you after you walked out on him like that. But to have two of his lackeys beat you, and threaten to do worse? It makes you nauseous. They were only seconds away from taking what they wanted from you.

When you say nothing, still processing his first statement, Mando continues. 

"I didn't want you to think otherwise. That I didn't trust you to look out for yourself in your own town." 

_That wasn't my town,_ you want to say, but what comes out instead is, "No. I -- don't feel like you have to explain. I don't know if I'd even be here if you hadn't shown up."

Mando sighs, clenching a fist at his side. "The scum of the galaxy. Idiots." 

" _Di'kut,_ " you supply. 

"Mando'a?" he asks. When you nod, he gives a small _hm_ of dissatisfaction. "I don't know that one." 

So you tell him the meaning of the word, and to your great thrill, he laughs. An honest-to-Maker _laugh_ , not a scoff or nose exhale. It's a quiet chuckle, nothing to get excited about -- but you do. You're standing there next to him smiling like a lobotomized Gungan. 

"I like it," he says. 

\------ 

It's been a month since you boarded the _Crest_ , and you're almost used to it. Things move in a sense of organized chaos, with the baby at its center. You somehow feel like you're getting _less_ sleep than you did working three jobs just wrestling the little gremlin. Despite that, you can't remember being happier in the past few years. 

Mando wasn’t wrong; the kid likes you. So much, in fact, that he wants to play constantly. Which is fine, except that he always seems to be bouncing off the walls. You admire his energy -- and envy it a lot more. There have been several occasions where you sneak in a nap while letting the baby indulge in his favorite weird thing -- smushing your face with his little green hands. If you don’t think too hard about it, it’s almost like a massage. 

After one or two planets, you get smart, and pick up coloring tools and paper. _That_ keeps him occupied for around one blissful hour per day, but it warms your heart when you start to see yourself drawn next to Mando in the shaky scribbles. 

You learned the hard way that Grem -- short for Gremlin, which is what you've started calling him -- will eat _anything_. Anything living, anything small enough to cram in his mouth. You've confiscated pieces of the ship, your own personal toiletries, and even a stray ammo shell that got left on the floor from a bounty job. There was some concern about him eating local fauna, but Mando assured you to let him have them. Taking them away wasn't worth the tantrum he'd throw, he'd said. Frogs and lizards were his favorites, and sometimes used as a bribe.

You were wondering for a while if you'd see more evidence of Grem's strange abilities. So far, he's just a hungry green baby. He's growing on you, too. It's not often that he isn't in your lap, or at least in your line of sight. Watching him heal your blaster wound -- and being afraid of what else he could do -- seems so long ago. 

All of this is a lot to tackle, but it's not like you're alone. Mando takes over to let you sleep, shower, eat, and whatever else you need to do on a daily basis. It's a little like co-parenting, but you'd never say it out loud. 

Though you're more than grateful to him, Mando is a bigger mystery to you than ever. He still hasn't given you his real name, which you guess is fine. Living under a moniker isn't unusual for a bounty hunter. He’s proven trustworthy, and he isn’t unkind. And though the three of you are feeling more and more like a little family unit, he never takes his meals with the two of you. You realize the reason why; the helmet never comes off. In fact, most of the armor doesn't. If you see him without a piece or two, your instinct says to look away, as if you've seen something you shouldn't have. 

After a few weeks, you finally piece it together. You could have slapped yourself for how long it took to figure out. He must be an orthodox Mandalorian. You'd read about them in the required history texts when studying Mando'a, but stars, it had been years. The more devout Mandalorians adhered to the ancient Way, vowing to never remove their helmet in front of another -- unless that individual was their spouse or child. Figuring that out actually made you feel better; you were beginning to think he didn't trust you, after all. 

Now that you know why he keeps it on, you're more curious than ever about what he looks like underneath. You catch yourself staring when you shouldn't, and can only hope he hasn't caught _you_ yet. What color eyes would he have? What facial features? How does his mouth look when he smiles? But the helmet gives nothing away. 

There have been three more bounties, but you try to stay out of the way when they're happening. Hauling them onto the ship and freezing them in carbonite is a loud, messy, frightening affair. If you can help it, you stay up in the cockpit with your hands over your ears. It's the farthest away, the best place to drown out the curses and screams. 

When they're over, Mando climbs the ladder, armor and clothes spattered in the quarry’s blood. 

"All good?" He'll ask. 

You take him in with a glance, trying to seem casual. For someone who just fought a criminal, he's surprisingly put together. Every time you scan him for injuries, and every time he’s come back with none. Mandalorians really do live up to the stories. Something might be askew, like his ammo belt or rifle. You like that he sounds only slightly out of breath, a little inconvenienced. As if he'd gone out for a jog, that's all. He is so _dangerous_. Why do you like him this much?

"All good," you parrot back to him, holding the squirmy baby in your lap. 

"Alright. Back in a minute, then." 

He places an affectionate hand on Grem's head to ruffle the big ears, and then a feather-light touch to your shoulder. That's a new thing, a very new thing. As small as it is, you wish he'd do it about four times as often. Each time it happens, you experience a full-stop slam of adrenaline, though your entire body is still, like you could scare him off.

The first time had been an accident, but the way you'd told him not to apologize was permission enough for the softest of contact to continue. You’d been transferring Grem over and the little brat had flailed so hard you nearly dropped him. Mando had stepped forward to prevent Grem from falling, missed, and ended up with his hands on you. Purely coincidence, circumstance, but neither one of you moved until Grem started complaining. The air is different between you now -- thicker. 

"We'll be here." You say now, giving him a smile. 

He's off to wash the blood and sweat away. The water starts, and you are definitely not listening for every piece of armor and clothing to hit the floor of the washroom. 

There was no denying it anymore. You had it bad for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on chapter three! Sorry that not a lot happened in this one. There was more to it, but the chapter was getting HUGE, so I decided to leave it here and save the rest for chapter four. As always, please be sure to let me know what you thought! I hope the new year is treating you right so far.
> 
> Yours,  
> WickedScribbles.
> 
> Translations:  
> Mando'a (from mandoa dot org)  
> Di'kut - idiot, useless individual, waste of space (lit. someone who forgets to put their pants on)


	4. The Language Lesson

You never thought that your first student would be quite this small. 

At first you think _young_ , but remember that that isn’t the right word anymore. It only recently crossed Mando's mind to let you know that Grem is actually fifty. _Fifty years old_. You thought he was screwing with you. It's still hard to tell under the beskar. 

\-----

"Excuse me -- what?" You say. Good thing you had finished eating, because you might have choked. Grem stands on Mando's lap, preoccupied with his own reflection in the breastplate. His stubby hands go _pat pat pat_ on the metal as Mando struggles to look around him at you. It's a nightly tradition now for you and Grem to eat on the floor of the cockpit with your _beroya_. Mando eats whatever you'd thrown together after the two of you are done. 

"Easy, kid -- hold still. Yes, fifty." 

You can only splutter in disbelief. "But that --" 

"--Doesn't make any sense?" Mando finishes with a shrug. "Not much about him does." 

_Okay, touché._

"How can you be sure?" You set your plate down and join them on the floor, your leg touching Mando's. Grem lets out a little squeak and crawls over to you, dangling half over you and half over him. You can't put words to how it makes your heart feel -- to how much you love fitting into this little clan. 

"I was hired to hunt him." 

Some of that good feeling drains out of you like a plug has been pulled. Just like that day when you asked if Grem was dangerous and Mando pulled him away from _you_ , you gather the baby up now, as if he needs protecting from the past. 

You look up to Mando's visor, expectant, and he tells you everything. How Grem was considered priceless to his post-Imperial client. How everyone in his Guild had tracking fobs, desperate to be the ones to bring him in. Even how he'd completed the job, gotten back to the _Crest_ , then decided that he couldn't leave the baby alone. Not after the kid had saved his life. Not without knowing what they'd planned to do to him. 

It feels so much better knowing the whole story. "Why didn't you say that from the start?" Grem is dozing on you now, _crushing_ your thigh with his deadweight. 

Mando is quiet for so long that you start counting the baby’s breaths. The stars swoosh by overhead in an endless stream. 

"I guess... I didn't want you to think less of me." His voice barely comes through the modulator. He’s distanced himself from you, legs no longer touching. Impressive in such a tiny spot. 

"I don't know that I could think any _more_ of you," You whisper back. Bracing for him to move away again, you reclaim the space he put between you. Your flat knocks against his boot. 

And it's true. How did it come to this? Not so long ago he was a stranger, and still is in so many ways. But in him you see kindness through the danger, mercy through the harshness. You want to know everything about him, and tell him all there is to know about you. 

...You swear he's staring at you like you're a three-headed womp rat. 

Oh gods. _That_ was too much, too fast. You've hardly touched one another and now you're telling him how amazing you think he is. 

"I mean --" You try to back out, try to lessen the impact, but he stops you. One gloved hand comes up to cradle your face, again with only the lightest of touches. For some reason, the cockpit feels impossibly smaller. The leather of the glove is soft on your cheek, well worn with use. You hope he can't hear how erratic your breathing's gotten. 

"Miona." You've never cared about your own name, but you would have him say it a dozen times. 

"Yes?" 

But he's not looking at you anymore -- his gaze goes over your shoulder. He sighs, and drops his hand from your cheek. "The kid's awake." 

_Shit_. 

\-----

That was five days ago, and almost every moment since has been hectic. You've had your hands full with Grem, and Mando has been away tracking another bounty. In the down time of a rare nap, you decide to get some things together to see if Grem will respond to any languages you know. It was something that you've been meaning to do for a while, but the little guy has been keeping you busier than you'd anticipated. 

Moving as quietly as possible, you shut Grem's cradle and climb the ladder. You keep your non-essentials in the storage room behind the cockpit. Not much carried over that isn't clothing or money, but there are a few things that you couldn't bear to part with. Most important to you is your satchel from days past as a student on Coruscant. You've only opened it a few times since… since your ship landed in Cantonica. When you _really_ needed a reminder that things would be better someday. The thing is packed so tight with your notes (paper, because you weren't spending extra credits on holo recorders for every class) that it doesn't even clasp shut anymore. 

You shimmy it open, as if everything inside would turn to dust if you used too much force. To your disappointment, your papers are crushed and disorganized. You'd bet all your credits that the thieves went through this when they broke in on Cantonica. Mando most likely gathered everything up and put it back, not knowing how they were supposed to be arranged. You're grateful he thought to grab it for you at all, but it'll take a long time to put back together. _Might as well get started_. 

As you're hauling the strap over your shoulder, something skitters out and across the floor. You recognize it at once; a smooth, black rock from your home planet. On one side, the initial _E_ , carved clumsily. On the other, _M_. You feel your stomach drop as you trace the _E_ , thinking this little reminder had been lost ages ago. Of course it would reappear now. Elias had to make sure you hadn't forgotten him. As if you could. 

The hydraulic _whoom_ of the _Crest's_ ramp lowering startles you out of your thoughts. The rock almost slips through your fingers. Mando had come back. Sticking the memento in your pocket, you shoulder the satchel again and hurry down the ladder to fetch Grem. If you're quick, you might get there before all the noise wakes him. The fussy whine you hear before you're even off the ladder tells you that that's not happening. 

The setting sun blinds you as the ramp reaches its full extent, and the heat follows -- you're parked on a planet too like Cantonica for your liking. What was it called? Jakku? Good that you didn't need to go out for any supplies. You've started acclimating to the cooler temperature of the _Razor Crest_. 

Mando treads up the ramp, pausing when he sees that you're on the lower level. Dragging behind him is a sullen faced (but silent) Zabrak. No blood this time -- it must have been an easy surrender. You wonder if they'll still get the carbonite treatment. The way Mando jerks his head, gesturing for you to take Grem and head upstairs, suggests that there aren't exceptions. You feel your mouth form a tight line, but nod and do as he asks. 

Grem blinks up at you while you climb, disoriented from the short nap. "Good morning to you, too," You say as he yawns. "How would you like to do a little language lesson, bud?" 

He blows a raspberry at you. 

Well, you knew going into this that students wouldn't always be willing to learn. 

\----

Grem does not enjoy your efforts. He doesn't have any interest in sitting still while you organize your notes, and even tries to eat some. You try and sort quickly, but by the time things are in order, he's bored _and_ annoyed. Seeing things from his perspective, it’s hard to blame him. But you promised Mando that you’d give this a try, and you’re going to do it to the best of your ability. 

"Oh-kay," you sigh, trying to maintain some semblance of positivity. It’s not been half an hour and your notes are scattered everywhere. When the kid realized that you were intent on straightening them all into neat piles, he started grabbing them faster than you could catch him. They fell to the ground like injured birds, making your work futile. You would have preferred being able to refer to notes, but you could manage without them, right? Sometimes with Grem, you had to keep moving and adapt. Cringing a little, you shoved everything back in the satchel -- with not a bit of it organized. Some other time, then. A year from now, when the kid had learned to slow down for fifteen minutes in one go. _Not likely._

As he tries to wriggle away, you catch Grem and place him on the end of your cot, while you sit cross-legged at the entrance. 

“Okay, little gremlin,” you repeat. “Your dad wants me to see if you know any languages that he doesn’t, so that we can learn more about you. Does that sound fun?” 

He acts like he didn’t even hear you, and continues with his escape attempt. One shuffling step forward, then another, then lowering himself onto your lap and the floor. Shameless about using you as an accessory to his crime. Grem begins a slow but determined waddle away from you, headed in the direction of the upper deck ladder. 

“ _No_ you don’t --” In a few steps you’ve caught him. He flails as hard as his tiny body will allow, but you’ve wisened up to his antics. “ _Jee widd tak an uba widd panwa lo_ ,” you threaten. A snort from upstairs informs you that Mando is listening, and that he’s fluent in Huttese. 

“Bring him up if he’s being stubborn,” he calls down. Fine by you. Rotten little mudscuffer. 

Climbing up takes twice as long with Grem fighting you the whole time. You even get socked in the nose with a wayward baby foot, but say nothing as your eyes water from the unexpected hit. _You can’t punt him down the hallway, he’s just a baby, he’s a_ child...

“There you are.” Mando has the pilot’s chair swiveled around to face the pair of you, and he reaches out for Grem at once. “Are you being a brat? I’m not surprised. Why can’t you let Miona do her job, huh?” The kid is trying to maintain a grouchy expression, but it dissolves after a few bounces in his _buir’s_ lap. You bite back a grin; they're too cute sometimes. It took him a while to get comfortable being affectionate with his son around you, but you love that Mando does. 

“There’s krayt dragons on Jakku, you know. I could feed you to them.” He jabs under the baby’s arm, rewarded with laughter. 

You're laughing too now, deciding to let go of your annoyance. "Wouldn't make much of a meal." 

"From the sound of it, he isn't much of a student either." Mando looks up at you, helmet tilted. "You don't have to do this today. He must have been driving you up the walls while I was gone." 

"I mean...yeah." No point in putting icing on a mud pie, and you're familiar enough with Mando at this point to be honest. "He was. But I don't mind trying, as long as you're here." The two of you haven't had a real conversation since he told you about Grem's bounty last week. You're not sure how to hold yourself around him, still feeling awkward. 

"If you want me, I'll stay," Mando says easily. Hell, the way he says it makes you shiver. He could have phrased it any other way. _If you need a hand with the kid. If you want help watching him._ But no. He had to say, _If you want me._ And Maker, do you _ever_. Was it your imagination, or was his voice just a little lower, daring you? 

So many times, you've thought about slipping into the shower with him after a fresh bounty. You'd be good and keep your eyes shut, respecting his code. That didn't mean that you couldn't touch him. How would he react? A few sleepless nights, you’ve imagined beskar digging into your back, pinned against the wall by his strong body. Would he be rough? A part of you hopes so. How much of him would he let you see, touch, _know_ of him? You want everything. It might be selfish, but you can't lie to yourself anymore. At least telling yourself the truth allows a little sense of relief. 

"How did you want him to start?" 

Mando's voice brings you right out of the pleasant daydream. Grem is sucking his claw now, gazing up at you. Feeling your face flush, you hope you haven't been staring off at nothing for _that_ long. It's harder to have broody silences when people can see your expression. You clear your throat and look away, wishing that whoever designed this stupid ship had made the cockpit a little roomier. 

When it feels safe to speak, you address your new little student. "I have some ideas. C'mon, kid." Mando spins the child so that he's facing you -- and with any luck he'll actually pay attention. 

\----

" _Goopa theesa. Coro arandee?_ " You begin in Ewok. He's not like any Ewok you've seen or heard of, but stranger things have happened in the galaxy. Grem doesn't even blink.

That's disheartening. Pacing a little, trying to think of your next language, it's a minute before you throw another one at him. " _Wauh Akbu jawa? Da Juwi get Ut?_ " Surprise! He doesn't care. Mando stays quiet, watching as you attempt to wear a hole through the floor of the ship. It helps you decide what to throw at the kid next. 

Over the next hour, you get outlandish. Chiss, Sullustan, Gamorrese, a little broken Pak Pak. Grem couldn't care less about any of them, no matter what you say to him in the various tongues. You make bribes, threats, talk nonsense. For all they know, you're talking to yourself in gibberish. 

Finally, you pull out the Shyriiwook. Gathering as much spit as you can to the back of your throat, you tilt your head back and hope Mando isn't laughing at you under the helmet. " _Rawhro oaacrawhoawo rooohu cakworaor ohooooorahwo?_ " 

The kid has the nerve to giggle. Growling a low Shyriiwookan curse, you sink to the floor of the cockpit in defeat. 

"Mando, I don't know," you admit after a minute, massaging your temples. It's so _frustrating_. He took you off Cantonica hoping you could help him learn more about Grem. Turns out, you're useless in that department. He could've taken anyone to watch the kid. "I'm… I'm really sorry." 

You curl into yourself as much as you can, hoping he won't see your bottom lip shaking. It's been a long day, and the only thing pulling you through it was the hope that somehow, you could get through to Grem and communicate. That was supposed to be your whole life path; you'd failed on the first try. 

"What did I say at the bar on Cantonica?" He asks. 

You look up, confused. "You, um. Asked me how many languages I know. And if they really taught Mando’a on Coruscant." 

"Yes, but no." He eases out of his chair and joins you on the floor, barely fitting between the pilot seats. His body is squished against yours, and goosebumps break out on your arms. Shoulder to shoulder, leg to leg. Like you were meant to be connected there. "I said you apologized too much." 

You say nothing, too tired to think of a witty reply and too overwhelmed with his proximity. He takes your hand and laces your fingers with his, squeezing once. Slowly, you lean into him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. The pauldron isn't exactly comfortable, but he feels more like home than anywhere you've been in years. Here he's warm, and the smell of him is stronger than ever, filling your senses, making you dizzy. When you let out the shaky breath you were holding, the sigh is far too loud for the room. It gives you away in a heartbeat. 

"We'll try some other time," Mando assures, and for a second you wonder what he could be talking about. "Not a problem." 

It seems as if your tongue has become glued to the roof of your mouth, so a nod will have to do. You’re trying to stay calm, even as Mando nudges your leg with his boot in an almost playful way. Mimicking you from a few days ago, maybe. 

Grem is in front of you both, not paying a bit of attention. You watch the kid struggle to get a crayon out from under the control panel, where it’s wedged tight in one corner. He yanks it free and starts scribbling all over the floor. Neither of you move to stop him; keeping him occupied is worth cleaning up the mess later. 

“Hmm,” Mando murmurs, as you think you’re beginning to adjust.

“What’s wrong?” 

“It’s a little crowded down here. Might be more comfortable if you... came closer.” Feeling about fourteen again, you duck away from his glance, understanding the implication. 

_Stars_. This is it, isn’t it? Someone’s put a hit out on you, and now he’s trying to do you in with a slow, painful heart attack. _At least I’m dying happy_. Unlacing your hand from Mando’s and partially lifting off the floor of the cockpit, you shimmy over, placing yourself in his lap. To your delight, you hear a quiet, contented hum behind you. Mando shifts forward, the helmet barely touching your shoulder. 

“This okay?” he asks, and his tone is soft, as if he were speaking to a sleepy Grem. 

His arms are circling you. You fit inside the frame of his legs like a specialty part crafted for this purpose. With every breath he takes, you feel the rise and fall of his chest on your back. For years, you've touched no one, even in the crudest of ways. Now he's treating you so gently, asking if it's _okay_? 

The question is still hanging in the air, so you answer Mando with what may be the biggest understatement. "It's great." Tentative, you lean further into him, and he accommodates how you want to move as if he knew what you were thinking. “Maybe a little… beskar-y,” you add, trying to be funny. You’re rewarded with a scoff and a tap on the back of the head with said beskar helmet, the sound a dull _plonk_. 

“We can fix that." A pause. "In a few minutes." 

_Why the delay?_ You wonder, but then spot it -- Grem has been drawing on your shoe and is intent on making his way up to your leggings. How did you not even notice? Oh yeah. You were sitting in a Mandolorian’s lap, being caressed and flirted with. You probably wouldn’t have noticed if the _Crest_ had crashed, had it been flying. 

"Rotten," you tell the kid, who doesn’t look sorry at all. 

Mando hums in agreement. "And rotten kids get early bedtimes. C'mon." He extracts himself from you, and it takes a decent amount of willpower for you to not protest him leaving. You sit there, a puddle of limbs and emotion, while Mando summons the cradle and places Grem inside. 

When the kid is settled in, Mando turns back to you. 

“Where did we leave off?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're moving into more romance :) Soft Din Djarin is my favorite Din Djarin, can you tell? Ha.  
> As always, stay safe and stay well! See you next chapter.  
> Love,  
> WickedScribbles.
> 
> Mando'a: mandoa dot org  
> buir - father  
> beroya - bounty hunter
> 
> Huttese: lingojam dot com slash huttese for dummies  
> Jee widd tak an uba widd panwa lo - I will talk and you will enjoy it
> 
> Ewok: lingojam dot com slash english to ewokese  
> Goopa theesa. Coro arandee? - Hey, kid. Can you listen?
> 
> Jawa-ese: lingojam dot com slash jawaese  
> Wauh Akbu jawaese? Da Juwi get Ut? - What about Jawaese? Do you get it?
> 
> Shyriiwook: jalequin dot atwebpages dot com slash Pages slash Other slash Translators slash Shyriiwook dot php  
> Rawhro oaacrawhoawo rooohu cakworaor ohooooorahwo? - Any chance you speak Wookie?


	5. The Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLUFF WARNING. SO FLUFFY. I have no excuse, except that I am soft.

You're undressing him. Technically, it's just his armor -- but that doesn't stop it from being thrilling. Mando is actually _teaching_ you how to do it, which bodes well for your future. 

"So it's all magnetic?" You're fumbling with the pauldron he gave you to take off, fingers trembling. You're both seated on the floor of the cockpit again, breathing each other's air in a way that you can't help. The only difference is now you're sitting cross-legged, facing him. Trying to keep some form of composure. 

"Most parts." His gloves came off moments earlier. You struggled to keep a neutral expression at your first glimpse of his bare hands. He has scars on his knuckles, and his skin is tan despite how little it sees the suns. One of them grazes over yours now, offering help. "Like this --" 

Craning his head, Mando's fingers stretch to cover the whole pauldron. With a sharp twist and pull, it comes off in his palm. He makes it look so _easy_. The magnetic force must be strong -- you couldn't budge it. 

Together, you work to remove the majority of it. As you go along, you talk about what happened while you were apart -- this recent separation had been a longer one. If you hadn't known him better, you would have worried. 

"So the kid wasn't too bad?" He leans forward, unbuckling the ammo belt from his shin. It drops to the floor with a _clang_ and you both stiffen, waiting to hear Grem fuss from the lower deck. Only silence echoes back. 

You shake your head. "You know how he is. He missed you." Your heartbeat is in your throat at how casually he lets you touch him. It's so at odds with the normal conversation you're having. 

"Anything exciting happen?" Mando asks as, to your surprise, the gauntlet you were struggling with comes off in your hands. He takes it from you and presses a switch on the end before putting it aside. He'd trusted you to fool with the _flamethrower gauntlet_ , you realize. _Vader's pants_. 

"Pfft. You know it didn't." You laugh, to hide your sense of relief at not burning to a crisp. "What about you? That Zabrak guy give you trouble?" 

"Hm," he considers. While he's thinking, you sneak a full look at him. No pauldrons, no gauntlets, no gloves, no ammo belts or holster. He looks smaller somehow, softer. Even now, he's working on the chest piece as if it's an afterthought. That's -- _almost_ everything. _Maker_ , how much effort must go into carrying all that every day? "Not trouble. He was smart. Knew how to hide, and when to give up." 

"I see." None of the other bounties so far have had that much sense. Running doesn't do their prison sentences any favors, if he'd explained it to you right. 

The chest piece is gone, and you realize that he's removing the last thigh piece. He's practically _naked_. The way you're reacting is stupid, your throat is so _dry_. He’s still fully clothed, for goodness’ sake.

Mando stretches, like it's more comfortable out of all the beskar. The long, satisfied way he moves through it reminds you of a loth cat in the sun. You wonder when the last time he got out of all the armor was, aside from washing. Mando tilts the helmet at you, patting one thigh. An invitation. 

"C'mere. More comfortable now." 

Like you're not gonna do a backflip scrambling into his lap again. 

He was right -- it is _so_ cozy. Cuddled in his lap while he was in full armor was great. But now, you can feel every human contour of him against yours. His chest is moving against your back, and it feels so _normal_ you could cry. 

"Better?" There's a lightness to his voice, and you swear he's smiling. 

"Mm...yeah." You twist in his lap to sit sideways, wanting to see him but not willing to leave. The helmet tilts down, bumping your forehead.

"Hi there," he murmurs. You can feel the words in his chest, feel his heartbeat. He is everywhere and you never want it to stop. 

"Hi," you answer, giddy as a teenager. 

_What is this?_ Your head is light, almost swimming. Your cheeks hurt from smiling up at Mando. Your pulse is going faster than a Kushiban's. If you didn't feel so damn _good_ , you'd be scared something was wrong with you. 

Happy. You're _stupidly_ happy. It's been a while. As Mando traces circles up and down your arm, you think nothing could ruin it. You let your head rest on his shoulder. For several bliss-soaked minutes, you're content to stay like that. 

Then the time blinking on the _Crest's_ dash catches your eye, and your schedule kicks in on you. You would be washing the dishes right now, except you already did that. _Wait a minute._ Mando didn't eat with you today. Which most likely means he hasn't eaten, period. 

"Hey," you start. 

"Mm?" Mando pauses with the patterns he's drawing. 

"Did you -- you didn't pick up any food after the bounty, did you?" 

A long pause. "Well, no." 

"When did you eat last?" You have a feeling that you won't like the answer. 

"Not sure. Probably yesterday." 

" _Probably --_?" You frown at him, trying to look stern. "Hold on, then. I'll get something out of storage." You try and wriggle out of his lap, but he holds you fast. 

"You don't have to." 

"Don't have to feed you? Yes I do. I like you not dead." 

"It can wait 'til morning." 

"Mando, I'd feel better if you'd --" 

" _Miona_ ," he interrupts, and you go silent at his tone. "I -- don't want you to leave right now. Or to have to leave you." 

_Oh_. 

You know that being a Mandalorian comes with every perk of warrior training. He probably _can_ wait until tomorrow for a meal. Still, the unknown factor plants worry in your gut. You care about him now, every bit as much as you care about Grem. It's been five days since you've made food for him, taken the dishes back, and _known_ he's eaten. 

But you don't want to leave, either. 

"What if there was a loophole?" You blurt out. _Shit_. You didn't mean to say it like that. Like his way of life is just a set of rules meant to be broken. You have no idea how he'll react -- worst case scenario, you get thrown off his lap and this never happens again. Best case scenario… well. You get so much more of him. 

Mando's hand covers yours, fingers tapping on your knuckles. He makes you look even paler than usual, which isn't even fair -- you're the one who spent years on a desert planet. "I'm listening." 

\----

And that's how you end up sharing your first meal. 

Mando was quiet after your proposal, answering with only a nod. You hope you haven't pushed it too far. You want to tell him that he can change his mind, that he doesn't have to do this. Ready or not, material is already slipping over your eyes. The only thing you could think of to use as a blindfold was your leggings, so that's what you offered. Mando ties one leg around your eyes, the other dangles near your ear. Not the best look, but it’ll have to do. 

"See anything?" he asks. 

You open your eyes under the makeshift blindfold as wide as they'll go. Nothing is visible but the material. They're a thicker type that you picked up almost immediately after boarding the _Crest_ , having had nothing to wear that covered your legs. 

"Nope." 

"Swear?" There's tension in his voice. You think back to him telling you that he trusted you -- then shake the thought free. You can't be offended by this. It's his entire way of life. 

"I swear on Grem's adorable fuzzy head that I can't see a thing." 

He sighs, and you hear him shift in front of you. "Okay." 

Next comes a click followed by a _hiss_ , then the familiar sound of beskar being placed on the cockpit floor. You’re holding your breath -- like you might scare off a wild animal. There’s an irrational amount of adrenaline coursing through your system. When Mando picks up the bowl of topato soup, you almost jump out of your skin at the noise it makes scraping off of the tray.

“Everything alright?” he prods. Oh -- he sounds so _different_ without the modulator. His voice sounds closer, lighter, and achingly real. Your instant thought is to ask him to never wear the helmet again -- to let you walk around blind forever -- so you can hear everything he says unfiltered. 

“Fine,” you say, forcing it to be true. Forcing yourself to stay calm and let the man eat, like you were insisting on five minutes ago. Now that the last barrier is gone, you want to run your hands over his face like a woman who has never known sight. You want to memorize every detail, like an artist desperate to find inspiration. But you’d made the food -- so it would all have to wait. Hoping to lighten the mood, you add, “first dates make me nervous.”

“Is _that_ what this is?” His tone is so much easier to read, too. Like a melody written out, you can practically see every dip and curve it’s taking. Right now, he thinks you’re funny. He’s playing along, flirting back. 

“Well, there’s food. You and I are both --” you swallow, “ -- interested. So yes. It’s a date.” 

“Hm. Never had one before.” You hear him pick up the spoon and start on his soup. 

“No?” You’re surprised. He’s attractive in a mysterious way, even if no one’s seen his face. Beyond that, he's strong in the ways that no one thinks of. Mando _cares_. He's polite, kind, intelligent. He's even funny, if you give him the chance. _Maybe that's it; no one's gotten close enough_. 

“I’ve had...people.” Mando hesitates. “Not dates.”

_Ah_. 

His boot nudges your foot, and you manage not to flinch at the unexpected contact. "What about you?" 

You must be grimacing more than in your head, because he nudges you again, gentler this time. "Sore subject?" 

"Bad decisions," you sigh. "But it all seemed fun when it was happening. Not much else to it." 

And it's true. Once you'd headed off to Coruscant for school, the world was blown wide open. There had been a handful of men and a few women you'd dated there, mostly looking to take advantage of someone from a backwater planet. Things always started great but ended in hurt feelings, no matter how honest their intentions. 

Mando chuckles, and the sound makes your pulse double. "I know a thing or two about that." You hear the spoon clatter against an empty bowl, then the rattle of the bowl being set back on the tray. A short _scuff_ lets you know that he's picked up the portion bread in its place. "What made you want to study language?" 

Oh man. No one's asked you that since you were a student. To know that somebody still cares enough to ask -- and that that someone is Mando -- is sweet. 

"I'm from this tiny, nowhere planet," you begin. 

"Name it," Mando challenges. 

"Lah'mu." 

You listen to him breathe, chew, and swallow. Finally, he admits it. "Don't know it." 

_Ha_. "I told you it was a nowhere planet, smarty. Anyway. Life had always been pretty boring there. Not awful, just -- uneventful. Just my family and me, the neighbors, the yip-tips. Not much else." 

You pause, wondering how much the next words are going to hurt even over a decade later. Mando is quiet, too; you can hardly hear his breath. "Then the war started. My father was drafted. It was only around two months before we got the holo telling us that he was dead. I was twelve." 

His hand covers yours, squeezing once. "I'm sorry." You catch it and keep it, bringing his wrist to your lips for the quickest of kisses. Mando inhales sharply, and you feel him wriggle closer. 

It's okay -- you're okay. "Thanks. It was... _hell_ , it was almost fifteen years ago, but it's still not easy to think about. Our family -- me and my mom -- wasn't great. I was angry at the war. She was angry at me. All I could think of was that I would get people to stop. If people could understand each other, maybe they would stop." You laugh. "I understand this is an extreme pathway to becoming a linguist." 

That year, that first year without a father, might as well be burned into your brain. You and your mother fighting constantly. Sneaking away into the grass fields at night to be alone with your thoughts. Wishing there was still a parent around who understood you. Feeling like there was a hot coal in your chest when you thought about never being able to see him again. You cried so many furious tears. 

"It's admirable," Mando says. "And you're right. If people tried harder to understand each other, there _would_ be less fighting. You figured that out at twelve?" 

You shrug, turning red at his implied praise. He notices, and continues. "Miona, I've never heard of someone knowing everything that you know. You should be proud." 

"Okay, thank you, stop --" You stammer, shoving for his shoulder blindly and hitting him in the nose. Mando finds it pretty amusing. The beauty of his unfiltered laughter makes you blush harder. Maker, you really, _really_ want to touch him now. 

Realizing that you haven't heard him eating the portion bread for a few minutes, you start to get excited. "You finished?" 

"Mmhm." You hear him shift again, his face inches from yours now. His breath flutters on your lips, doing _hellish_ things to your lower region. "Does that mean the date's over?" What a _tease_. Like you can even think with him this close, talking to you like that. 

"It's only over...w-when you want it to be," you manage, unable to remember what a normal breath feels like. Hands slide up your arms and linger deliciously near your neck, his thumbs tracing each collarbone. 

"Never, then." His whisper practically moves against your own lips, and you can't fucking _take_ it -- you close the distance and kiss him. 

\-----

Your lips don't land squarely on his, which is embarrassing. Close enough to feel him grin, though. Being blind in this situation is more debilitating than you thought it would be. You're far too anxious to touch him to pause and think straight; it's making you clumsy. His cheek nudges closer into yours, and stubble scrapes your skin. 

"Good?" Mando's asking as he pulls away. 

_Maker_ , but he's cute. So concerned about if you're enjoying it. You're about to _show_ him how much you like him. "Mando --" you start, meaning to spin something clever about how _you_ were supposed to be the over-apologetic one, but he interjects. 

"It's Din." You feel as much as hear him swallow around the admission of his own name. In the short span of a day, he's given you so many missing pieces. Such a simple confession, but it means everything. You hope it's not too much for him -- that he won't regret it. 

"Din," you repeat, testing out the single syllable, a new note of music on a well-worn instrument. Tears are welling up in your eyes at this unexpected gift, and you're suddenly grateful for the blindfold. Blame the rush of emotion on this long, crazy day. "It's nice to meet you." 

"Nice to meet -- _mmph_!"

Without any further hesitation, you snake your arms around his shoulders and kiss him the way that you've been yearning to for cycles now. He reacts with equal enthusiasm, a soft _mmm_ vibrating in his throat. One of his hands tangles in your hair, caressing the back of your head. The other goes to your hip. Din's lips are softer than you'd imagined, and he lets you lead -- which you are _more_ than happy to. His shaky breaths are egging you on, making you confident that this is two-sided. 

It isn't long before closed mouth kisses aren't enough. You've thought about this for too long, wanted it too much. You let your tongue swipe over his lips, relishing the surprised noise he makes. Din goes still, as if unsure how to process the movement, but the hand in your hair tightens. You take this as your go-ahead, easing your tongue further into his hot mouth. He shudders, and you share his staccato breaths. Slowly, you feel his tongue move against your own. There's a hesitation, almost a delay, before Din is exploring your mouth with a delicious savagery. The hand on your hip _squeezes_ , and he's moaning into your mouth now as the kiss gets messier, frantic. 

" _Miona_ ," he gasps, breaking away from you. 

"What?" You're equally out of breath, lips still parted, unwilling to stop. 

" _Closer_ ," he chokes out, and you're scrambling to obey. Din presses you into his lap and onto something thick and hard -- you whimper when you realize that _all_ of it is his clothed cock. 

" _Fuck_ ," Din hisses as you sink onto it, relishing every curve of him through the material of his pants. Maker, you have to be soaking wet. Unable to resist, you rock your hips into his, aching for more contact. Din gasps near your ear, and you follow the sound to his neck, kissing a line there. He tilts his head, asking for more. A Mandalorian, baring his neck for you -- you could get used to the idea. 

"Miona," he says again as you reach his earlobe. 

You're too busy for words right now. He's spread his legs further for you, making the connection between your hips and his even tighter. You're moving against him in earnest now, too pent up for shame. Every other thrust pushes your clit against his cock. The air on the ship is cool, but you're breaking a sweat, desperate for more of him. 

So Din keeps talking. 

"Feels _amazing_ ," he stammers, thrusting back into you. "You're amazing. Don't know if I'll -- last like this." His voice is low and breathy, and you thank _someone_ that he picked now to get talkative because the way he sounds is turning you on even more. "I -- _fuck_!" 

You kiss over the shell of his ear, feeling his body jolt. 

"You like that?" You were going for sexy, but you sound shaky more than anything.

" _Yeah_ ," he answers in a way that lets you know that the term 'like' is an understatement. "Miona, please --" 

Mindless to anything but the roaring need that overwhelms you both, you do what he wants. Anchoring yourself with a handful of hair, you expose his neck further. Din nearly _whines_ beneath you. You let your tongue dart out and suck his earlobe, feeling his legs kick as he utters a harsh groan.

"I'm close," Din tells you. "Miona, I'm getting close --" His grip is like beskar on your body. A part of you hopes there will be bruises tomorrow to remember this by. 

You fumble with the buttons on his pants, wanting to finish him with your hand. Stupid _blindfold_ \-- you have no idea if you're anywhere close to undoing them or not. He realizes what you want and undoes the snaps, urging himself into your hand with a desperate sound. 

Din's cock is hot and throbbing, so hard that it must border on painful for him. You don't waste any time jerking him off, moving your hand up and down the shaft in practiced movements. A dribble of pre-come drips down your fingers, and Din's whole body tenses. 

" _Mmmmh --_ " He makes a sound that was definitely muffled into the back of his hand. 

"What was that?" You're grinning now, and he'll probably give you shit about it later. Right now, though, you're having far too much fun with the influence you have over him. Feeling his dick in your hand isn't bad, either. 

"I -- I'm there, Miona," his breath hitches, and one of his steadfast hands reaches for your unoccupied one. He insists on lacing fingers, squeezing hard. "I'm right there -- _oh fuck, I'm coming -- Miona -- oh shit oh shit oh shit --_ " 

With a last trembling gasp, he does as promised. Din's cock jolts in your hand, spurting ropes of come over your fingers, wrist, and arm. He's still saying your name through it, like a mantra. 

He lets out a long sigh as it finally ends. You feel him move forward, then his breath on your face as a string of kisses pepper your nose and cheeks. Something... _warm_ is happening in your chest that you can't put words to -- it feels like equal parts fear and comfort. You’re not sure where it came from; it’s not like you haven’t done any of this before. Wanting to stay in the moment, you try and push the feeling down. You must look like an idiot, sitting there blindfolded, grinning with a handful of his come.

One last kiss lingers near your temple before Din says exactly what you wanted to hear. "Your turn?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting into the smut! Let me know what you think. Chapter's a little early, just because I had so much fun writing it. :) See ya next time.  
> Love, WickedScribs


	6. The Returned Favor

After Mando comes for you against the wall of the cockpit, both of you are eager to continue. Untangling from him with cramped legs, you excuse yourself to the washroom to clean up. This is easier planned than done. You have to feel your way along the perimeter of the room until you make it there. 

It's only when you're alone in the washroom that you lower the makeshift blindfold. The thing drops around your neck like a scarf. _The latest in fashion; scarf leggings._ There's a faint imprint where the material pressed into the skin around your eyes, and your hair is a wreck. There's a bright, almost wild look on your face as you lock eyes with yourself in the mirror. A sure sign of what -- or maybe who -- you’ve just been doing. 

You find it hard to believe that this is happening. That Mando -- _Din_ , you correct yourself -- is out there, waiting for you to come back. You flirted with him, touched him, made him come all over you; the proof is drying on your hand. What started as a crush has exploded into _more_. It makes you feel nervous to go back. Will things be awkward after tonight? Will this ever happen again, or is he just letting off steam? Did he go along with your "date" talk to amuse you? 

Shit. Does he see anything in you? You’re not beautiful by any stretch of the imagination. There are a lot of things you’re good at, but being pretty doesn’t top the list. He’s never even seen you made up, except for that first day working the bar. (Dua Neb insisted on the more promiscuous look for his servers.) Every day since you left Cantonica, you’ve been living in your most comfortable, rugged tunics. Some days you’ve got discarded food flung by Grem all over you; other days it’s oil and grease from the _Crest_. Being a mess from hard work never bothered you until now. Until it occurred to you that he was watching you in the same way that you watch him. 

You try to clear your head of these thoughts; they won’t help you. Waiting out there is a Mandalorian -- _no, a man, that’s all he is_ \-- who sincerely wants to pleasure you. That’s more than you can say for a fair few of your past partners. _And one who took from you without permission_. Okay, definitely not the time to think about _that_. 

There's a knock on the door. 

_Holy kriff_. As if you weren't already jumpy.

"Y-yeah?" You stammer out, pulse hammering. He wasn't going to come in here, was he? The blindfold is still around your neck, so you close your eyes tight.

"Just checking in. Everything good?" 

You nod before realizing he can't see. "I'll be there in a second." 

There's no response. In the silence you can hear the squeaky spot on the floor of the cockpit being stepped on -- which means he's away from the door. 

_Okay, Miona. You're being insecure and weird right now. Din is into you and you've got a lot of evidence. And even if he somehow isn't... He's offering you something you haven't had in a_ long _time_. 

Giving yourself a look that could almost be reassuring, you activate the faucet with one elbow and start scrubbing clean. No point in lingering any longer when he's promised you your own thrills. You tie the blindfold back around your eyes once your hands are clean and dry, making sure the band is snug. You've got this.

_If_ you can find the button for the door. You slap the general area where it's supposed to be before giving up and leaning on the whole panel, annoyed. _You're going to have to get better at this_ , you catch yourself thinking. That is, if he wants more after tonight. 

"Thought you weren't gonna make it." Din's voice is closer than you expected. Despite your onset of nerves, his sarcasm makes you snort. 

"Almost didn't. The drain started sucking me in," you reply. Being back in the same room makes things a little easier. The banter is familiar, a comfort almost. _He’s not going to bite_ , you remind yourself. It’s been a while now since he scared you simply because of who and what he was. 

"What do they call a smart mouth in Mando'a?" Din wonders aloud. He's close to you now, his voice a teasing purr. 

" _Mirdala uram_ ," you answer. He probably wasn't being serious, but you can't help but give him the words of his language anyway. Every once and awhile, he asks to know the name of something, and always seems satisfied with your replies. Pretty soon, the two of you will need to have lessons of your own; you feel that they'd go better than Grem's. 

" _Mirdala uram_ ," he repeats. "Good to know for when the kid starts talking. _If_ he does." The Mando'a sounds more at home in your mouth than in his -- but you love the way his voice changes to say it. When you know him better, you want to ask him so many questions about being a Mandalorian. How did he come to be one? Why a Child of the Watch? There are so many unknowns. And he already knows more than a fair share about you, after all. 

For now, though, there are other things to attend to. Like how his hands are cupping your face, with the softest of touches. At the same time, his dick presses into your pelvis, hard as beskar once more. Your back is against the wall of the cockpit, and it feels almost as solid as he does. 

You respond with some sort of noise, unable to access your brain. Always a smooth operator in these situations. 

“I promised you something,” Din whispers, his lips skirting your collarbone. Kisses fall on your skin, trailing up your hairline to your ear much in the way you’d done to him moments before. You shudder and stiffen, a small moan escaping your lips. Not as excited as he’d been, but it was still more than pleasant to feel him kiss over the sensitive skin of your neck. 

When he gets to your ear, he says only three words. “On the floor.” Something about his tone compels you to obey immediately -- your knees buckle like you’re about to faint. Your butt collides with the steel floor of the cockpit a little too readily for comfort, but you say nothing. He sinks to the floor with you, moving with far more grace than you could achieve in the best of times. 

Now he’s the one cornering _you_. Without being able to see him, he feels huge looming over your body. Din kisses you like your lips are in limited supply, each touch long and fierce and intoxicating. For the first time since you saw him in the cantina, he’s starting to intimidate you. You're not used to letting your guard down like this -- it doesn’t come naturally. Two strong hands run down to move your legs, and you part for him. It’s clear that he’s holding back, handling you with care. No doubt that he could snap you in half; covered in beskar and weapons or not. 

Din strokes your legs from calf to thigh, taking his time to imbibe you with sensation. Fingers touch the hem of your tunic, asking wordless permission. Knowing what he wants, you nod, and cool air touches your skin as the garment is pushed up to your hips. Only your underwear between the two of you now, and they aren’t exactly in the best state. 

“A tattoo,” Din murmurs, tracing fingertips over the flowers on your right hip. “Didn’t expect that.” 

“It’s not the only one.” 

“Is that so?” He seems fascinated, squeezing the inked skin. “And where are the rest?”

“You’ll --” you lick your lips, dry from how fast you’ve been breathing, “you’ll have to find them later.” 

Din sucks in a harsh breath of his own. His imagination must be running wild right now, and you let it. The others aren't in a place as adventurous as this one, but why ruin his fun? 

“Hell, woman…” 

You wriggle under him, getting antsy. “Din.” Another shuddering breath, and his grip on you tightens. Does he like hearing you say his name? If he’d hurry up and touch you, you’ll moan it for him. 

“Yeah?” 

Oh, Maker, your heart is _thudding_. The anticipation is too much. Your pussy is tingling, _longing_ for the promised stimulation. Can he see how wet you are? You feel soaked through, almost cold as air touches the place it normally wouldn't. 

“Touch me. Please.” 

His hands drift further, further up the vee of your legs, stroking your inner thighs in circles. He's inches from your pussy, and you clench with a needy little whine. 

"Touch you...how?" 

He speaks in your ear, soft and knowing. This isn't ignorance; he's toying with you, drawing this out. You have a feeling he wants to hear you do more than ask nicely. When you don't answer immediately, he places a hand over your panties, using two fingers to stroke exactly where your slit is. It's not enough -- not enough pressure, not close enough to the real skin-on-skin contact. 

" _Din_ ," you say again, in a pitch higher than you like.

"Miona?" he sounds almost as flustered as you do. You wonder what part of you he's looking at right now -- your red face, or his fingers stroking across your wet underwear. 

"I -- want you to finger me," you manage, feeling your face get even hotter. No one's ever asked you to spell it out like this. To lay yourself bare. The blindfold only adds another layer of vulnerability. Not like you can take it off, though. 

You feel him thumb your ruined panties to the side, and his fingers finally touch your curls. _Fuck_. Out comes another helpless noise from your throat. Din's middle finger traces the length of your slit, up and down, with ease. 

"You're _so_ wet," he marvels, voice rough. "Has it...has it been a while for you?" 

Breathing in ragged gasps, you can only nod as his middle finger enters your cunt. You can feel the single digit curling inside you, moving in gentle upward strokes. Din pulls out and adds another, drinking in your desperate moan with a kiss as he goes.

At some point you've reached out and grabbed his shoulder, but you can't remember when. With two fingers inside you, he starts an in-and-out motion that satisfies something _primal_. You jerk upwards into the movement, needy for it. His thumb is moving, parting your labia in search of your clit. It takes a few seconds, but when he brushes against it, your legs go ramrod straight. 

" _Fuck_ ," you gasp, clinging to him now. "Like that." 

His hand slows -- not stopping, but enough to tease. 

"Be more specific." 

_Ooh, this asshole_. "I -- can you -- fuck me with your hand? A little rough. And t-touch my clit. I want to -- to come for you."

That took a lot to say, even in your desperate state, so the silence that meets you is worrying. When Din finally speaks, it sounds like he's shocked that you were _that_ specific. 

"I -- I can do that." 

He doesn't waste a single second longer on words. The fingers inside you _slam_ upward, flirting against the edge of your g-spot. 

" _Din_ ," you cry out, opening yourself wider for him. His thumb is toying with your engorged clit in a slow, languid way that's at odds with what's happening inside you. The oversensitivity is pulling at something deep in your core, a familiar feeling. If things keep going this way, you’ll get what you want -- and fast. 

A hand slips into the front of your tunic, fondling one of your breasts. You gasp and lean into the unexpected touch -- you're getting close now, and this will only put you over. 

"Are you going to come for me?" He says in a low whisper, just as his clever fingers tweak your nipple. Unable to help it, you yelp, only thinking afterward about all the noise you're making. 

" _Yes_. I'm -- I'm _close_." Every part of you has gone tense as the feeling of orgasm builds and builds and -- and -- _fuck --_

" _Din, I'm coming -- fuck, I'm coming --!"_

It overwhelms you faster than you realize, a wave of throbbing pleasure. You whimper and cling and say more things, incoherent. Throughout it, he keeps his fingers on your clit, still lightly stimulating, and it makes the orgasm that much stronger. Time seems to slow and then speed as it comes to an end. 

Din's fingers leave you with an indelicate squelch. For a while, neither of you speak. You need to catch your breath, and he seems content to sit there with you while you do. Maker, you are _exhausted_. 

"So," he says. 

"So?" 

"Is a second date a possibility?" 

You smile, landing a shaky blow on his shoulder. 

"Yeah. I'll be here all week." 

\------

The next week is so normal that it makes what happened in the cockpit feel like a dream. If it weren't for the lingering glances and subtle flirtations, you might have believed it was. 

Your routine has seen _almost_ no impact. Grem still wakes you up whenever he feels like it, usually rudely. At the start he was a fan of a fingers-in-the-nose method, but lately he's graduated to grabbing a fistful of hair. As a necessity of avoiding pain rather than embracing fashion, you've started wearing it up. 

The two of you say hello to Din and eat breakfast together. Starting each day like this has become particularly more exciting. Instead of only turning to the kid with affection, your Mandalorian will look at you in the same way. Kriff, it makes you warm all over. Like you're the highlight of his day. Even if it _is_ through a helmet. 

While you prod Grem to eat healthy things he doesn't have an interest in, Din tells you what the plan is for the days ahead. If there's a bounty soon, if there's a carbonite drop-off upcoming. 

If you're lucky, the ship is in auto-pilot and he'll be next to you, touching you in some way. Keeping it wholesome in front of Grem, of course. He might play with your hair, letting the bun-and-ponytail combination slide through his fingers. Or he could rest his hand somewhere on your body; a shoulder, a thigh. Just being close is nice. 

Unlucky, and you have to talk to the back of his head. 

To pass the hours it takes before lunchtime, you and Grem occupy yourselves on the lower deck. The kid could wear himself out racing you up and down the hallway -- goodness knows he isn't fast. Or you could take crayons. Sometimes you try to coax another language test into him, which he hates. 

Lunchtime comes, and you go back up to bother Din. After you eat, he takes Grem for a few hours so that you can shower and spend some time for yourself. Not that you want to be alone anymore. If Din is between bounties, you're right up there in the cockpit with them. It's cramped as all hell, but there are no two people you'd rather be crowded with. If you're bored, there's usually some maintenance work that needs attention. If Din is gone hunting, you follow the same routines -- just while missing him.

\----

When it's Din's turn to watch the kid, he has a lot more to say. Early on in your time on the _Crest_ , you'd left Grem with him and gone to the lower deck, but forgotten your headphones upstairs. What you saw trying to come back gave you pause. Grem was seated in his _buir's_ lap, little hands stretched toward the controls, while Din narrated all the sounds and action of a heavy gunfight. The kid was giggling almost as loud as he'd been after your game of hide and seek. 

"And the master pilot swerves left -- _nyoom_ \-- narrowly avoiding the heavy fire. It's a close escape. He keeps his guns trained on the enemy. For someone with such little hands, he's the king of dexterity." 

You'd been frozen in place. For one, you had never heard him say that much at once, and never in the tone of voice that implied he was playing with the kid. But you were on the last rung of the ladder, with your head sticking up into the floor of the cockpit. If he just looked over, he'd see. _Okay, abort. Do not let him see you seeing him being cute with the kid._

Holding your breath, you moved your foot to sneak back down. As if reading your mind, the kid turned his head at the last second -- and looked right at you. You heard the creak of the pilot's chair as it swiveled, but you were already gone. Din still doesn't know that you saw. 

\----

The evening means dinner. After that, bath time for the kid. You clean dishes once he's done, then Din hits the shower. While he's away, you make yourself useful by running inventory of supplies, if that sort of thing hasn't been done in a while. By the time he's out of the shower -- and again, luck is on your side -- Grem should be getting sleepy. You and Din put him to bed. Din checks the nav systems for anything out of place. You've memorized the _all-clear_ beep from the control panel. It means he'll turn to you, not having bothered to put his armor back on, and pull you close. 

You know it can't last long; he can't leave the ship's controls unmanned for more than a couple of hours, even with the autopilot. It's not like Din doesn't have things to do besides curl up with you every night, either. Still, those precious, stolen moments at the end of your day have become worth more to you than any bag of credits. 

\------

"Never done that before," Din muses out of nowhere a few nights after. It feels like everything is defined now in terms of before and after your first night together. You're in the cot, running fingers through his hair. The thick, wavy texture is something you haven't gotten tired of touching. From the way he leans back into your hand whenever you suggest pulling away, he must like it just as much. One of his arms stretches over your torso, and your feet are tangled up in each other. 

"Never done what?" He'd said he'd been with people. How broad was his definition?

"Kissed someone." 

Oh, and he waits until _now_ to drop that revelation on you. You suppose that it makes sense, with how hesitant he was to take off the helmet. Even with the precautions you were taking, Din hadn't seemed like slipping the thing off for pleasure was something he was used to. It just never occurred to you that -- that you were his first _kiss_ , for Maker's sake. You smile at the realization, burrowing deeper into the crook of his shoulder so he won't notice how happy you are with yourself. Of course, he sees through you anyway. 

"Does that please you?" His stubble tickles your ear, and you squirm a little. 

"It might." As if to prove your point, you kiss him now, lingering a little too long. It's getting easier to figure out where his lips are on blind instinct. "You were awfully good at something you'd never done." 

"Because I liked it so much," Din murmurs, moving a hand down your lower back to bring your body closer. "But… I have other firsts with my mouth available." 

After making the connection to him not taking off the helmet for anyone else before, it's easy to figure out what he's implying. In the same way that his mouth had never touched another person's, his _tongue_ had never -- touched anything else either. Like your very willing pussy.

Hoping he can’t tell how much you want that right now, you take the hand that had been in his hair and push it into his cheek. You’re only being a bit of a brat -- any excuse you can get to familiarize yourself with his features is one you’ll take. 

“Hey, quit. You’re as bad as the kid.” But he’s smiling -- the curve of his mouth against your fingertips says so. 

If only you could see him do it. 

“At least I’m not ripping your hair out. I’ll be bald if he keeps it up.” Even with the new way you’re wearing your hair, Grem manages to sink his grubby claws into a fistful at least twice a day. That shit _hurts_. 

“I’d buy you a convincing wig.” Always ready with that bone-dry wit. 

“ _Speaking_ of hair,” You trail two fingers over his upper lip, “Din. Am I right? Is this an actual mustache growing on your face?”

A pause. You feel his mouth move to answer you. “It might be.”

Unable to help giggling, you move your hand away. “A man of mystery, for sure. Maybe that’ll be _your_ nickname.” 

Not long after he’d pulled up your tunic and seen the flower tattoo on your hip and thigh, Din had asked for another Mando’an word. Now, along with your name, he calls you _sarad_ \-- flower. Occasionally he’ll say the nickname in Basic, and it allows for a little more variety. Flower, petal, pet. You had never liked pet names when dating in the past, but this one feels...good. Not too mushy, and less generic than things you’d been called before. You might have thrown up a little if Din had ever tried to call you _baby_. 

“What the word, then? I’m sure you have it.” There’s affection in his voice for you, his confidence in your abilities clear. 

" _Troan'gemas,_ " you say, letting your tongue roll over every curve of the unique accent. "It means _face hair_. Is it okay if I call you that in Basic?" 

Din scoffs. "I'm gonna go with no, _sarad_." 

That's okay. His true name is more than enough for you. _This_ is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think they like each other. :)  
> I changed the outline of this chapter about five times, but it's finally done. Oof. As always, hope you enjoyed it. Stay safe and stay well!
> 
> Love,  
> WickedScribbles.
> 
> Mando'a: mandowords dot tumblr dot com
> 
> mirdala - smart  
> uram - mouth  
> buir - father  
> sarad - flower  
> troan'gemas - face hair


	7. The Market

"Do you have the wrist comm charged?" 

Din's voice crackles through the communication device, the light on the side blinking. Like the last three days, his tone has taken on an edge that you don't like. It almost sounds anxious. You've never known him to be nervous about anything -- and definitely not a bounty.

From what he's been able to tell you, this one is particularly slippery. A spice dealer that feels that their occupation is making them too many credits for them to end up in prison. As soon as Din feels like he's closed in on them, they get away again. It doesn’t help that this one is a native to the planet, and acts as if they know every nook and cranny of the rocky surface. You’d seen Din studying the puck -- the Bith’s eyes peered back at you from the hologram. From what you knew about the species, if one didn’t want to be found, they would make it as difficult as possible. 

"You wouldn't be talking to me if I didn't." You roll your eyes, glad he can't see. 

"Not funny. Answer the question, please." 

Stars, he is _not_ in a good mood. 

"Yes, it's charged," you sigh, fiddling with Grem's robes. For some reason, he's keen on slipping out of them lately. Seeing his tiny green butt stripping across the market is _not_ part of the plan for today. You've sewn buttons in to slow him down, but your needlework is clumsy and unprofessional.

"Okay." There's a brief pause where you can hear him moving around on the other end -- then a quiet swear. "Are you -- are you sure you can handle the kid _and_ pick up supplies? Do you need to wait for me?" 

It's been days since you've seen him. Din's been on the hunt for even longer than the stint on Jakku. A week and a half now, and you've run out of rations and other necessities on the _Crest_. Under normal circumstances, Grem would stay with one of you while the other went out for what was needed. That luxury can't be afforded this time around. You fed Grem the last energy pudding a few minutes ago, much to his distaste. 

"You know we _can't_ wait." You try to keep tension out of your voice, but it creeps through. "I can handle this." You'd like to snark back at him. Maybe tell him that you were a living, functioning adult before you lived on the _Crest_. You manage to hold your tongue. He's tired, you're stressed, and throwing fuel on the fire isn't going to help anybody. 

He continues to quiz you on what else you're supposed to bring to leave the ship. 

_Do you have the right gun and holster?_ (Yes -- his old holster that barely fits you, and a _much_ bigger blaster than the one you bought on Cantonica.) 

_What about the dagger?_ (Yes. That too. You felt like you were being sent off to war, not to pick up groceries.) 

_There's a tracking function on the wrist comm. Activate it at any sign of trouble and I'll find you._ (Okay, he's being overbearing, but his heart is in the right place. You soften a little and agree. Maybe when he's finally done with this pain in the ass hunt, he'll calm down.) 

When Din is absolutely certain that you have _everything_ that you need to leave the _Crest_ \-- weapons, comm, the kid, and ground security protocol in place -- his tone relaxes. 

"Stay safe," he tells you from the static of your wrist comm. "See you two soon." 

You activate the navigator, looking to the dusky rock formations in the distance. Grem babbles from the safety of the satchel you placed him in, excited to be seeing something new after so long. 

"You too, mustache." 

The only reply you get is a long, weary sigh before he disconnects. 

\-----

A cool breeze whips the cloak around your shoulders, and you pause to take in a deep breath. Going back to the recycled ventilation of the ship can feel stale after lungfuls of such crisp air. It’s been a bit of a trek from the _Razor Crest_ , a few miles so far if your aching feet are correct. You have to switch Grem from one shoulder to the other. His weight starts to dig into the muscle where the satchel strap sits. 

The walk has been quiet, but that doesn’t stop you from being paranoid. You left so early in the morning -- at Din's insistence -- that you aren't likely to see many travelers. There’s no set path to walk on; you have to rely on the beeps of the navigator. Coupled with that, the terrain is so wide open that you feel like someone is squeezing your chest. _Anyone_ could be watching you right now. Snipers. Pirates. After months of living in a tin can, it’s... _too much_. 

When a small herd of bluurgs come out from behind a tall rock formation, you freeze -- the exact thing you’d been told _not_ to do. Luckily, they only give you a passing glance before toddling off. This only sort of feels like success. If you can’t make a bluurg nervous, how are you going to keep a sentient species from dicking you over if it comes down to it? You fiddle with the blaster in its holster, the shape of it providing some comfort. 

Grem is getting antsy now. He’s seen the lizards darting in and out of the purple craters around you, despite your efforts to distract him. He doesn’t understand that you don’t have time to stop and try to catch one. The best you can do is promise him that you’ll find something delicious at the market. Hopefully you can keep your word. His grumpy whines seem extra loud in all this open space, and you try to soothe him by rubbing his ears. 

“Shh, buddy. We’re almost there, okay?” 

It's not a lie; the town is visible now, getting larger. Maybe ten more minutes of walking and you'll be inside. You can see a speeder bike jetting back and forth from here, and the vague outlines of people moving around. Houses and buildings made out of the same dusky stone you're standing on jut out at odd angles. All are squished together, a mashup of size and shape. 

Above you, the sun is waltzing towards noon, creeping further and further up the canvas of the sky. You're grateful that this didn't happen on a desert planet. Despite being stranded on one, you have no tolerance for the heat. Every shift at the moisture farm left you feeling almost dead. The thick-skinned Cantonican natives mocked you often. 

The navigator trills when you and Grem enter the town. There are quite a few people up and about -- two children run past, laughing and shrieking. They kick up purple dust as they go. In the distance, you can hear a stringed instrument being plucked. A group of women are coming from the opposite end of the street, carrying baskets full of a strange fruit. On the corner of the street, an older man is feeding birds. You feel yourself relax a fraction -- no need to be on high alert. If the natives are at ease, then you can be too. 

"Ready to find some food, little man?" You ask the kid, who is staring a little _too_ intently at those birds. A part of your brain knows exactly how their plumage would look hanging out of his wide green mouth. 

"Batuu," he grumbles. 

You shake your head, pausing to wipe the drool from his chin. " _Not_ the birds. C'mon." 

\-----

After getting directions from the man on the corner, you and Grem make your way a few streets down to the market area. He seemed alarmed that your "pet" was trying so hard to free itself from the bag to get at the birds. You assured him that "it" was well trained. Grem says nothing about this, but you swear he's shooting you a death glare as you take him away. 

"Hey, don't be like that," you say softly as the market comes into view. "I couldn't tell him you were the coolest fifty-year-old baby ever. Then _he'd_ want to hang out with you. And I'd be jealous." A tiny smile ghosts across the kid's face, but you know he's fighting it. "We can go to that booth at the end first; they've got sweets." 

Stopping at the booth that's giving off aromas of fresh bread and chocolate _might_ not have been for Grem's sake. The Pantoran woman behind the counter gives you a knowing smile as you ask for three of the morning special. You trade her credits for a warm bag, and sit on the curb nearby to dig into a pastry that melts in your mouth. 

Grem puts his pudgy hands on the bag and pulls out the other two chocolate buns, but you stop him. "The other one's for Dad, _ad'ika_. Pace yourself. We're getting more food, I promise." You tear his bun into manageable bites and place Din's in the empty backpack. 

For a moment, it's nice to just sit there in the sun with the kid. You've finished your treat and he's licking chocolate off of your fingers, making happy baby noises. He's got it all over his face, and the few napkins that came in the bag only smear it around. Maybe starting here wasn't the _best_ idea. But he's happy, you're happy. The clench of hunger has eased in your gut, and you have more energy to finish what you came here for.

"Okay, time to get up." You say it more to yourself than to Grem, feeling stiff from sitting on the hard curb. Brushing dust from the seat of your tunic, you get the kid back in his satchel. 

\---- 

After standing in line for half an hour, you've managed to work your way to the counter of one of the only brick-and-mortar shops in the market district. They sell meat here, a rare treat in space travel. The cryocontainer in your bag will keep it from spoiling until you get it back to the _Crest_. Savory aromas are wafting from the back, where you can see two workers turning a huge ronto roast. Grem is entranced by the way it moves; he hasn't taken his eyes off of it this whole time.

" _Sarad_?" 

Din's voice comes over the wrist comm, barely audible over the chatter of noontime in the market. 

Your pulse flutters to hear his voice again. It's been hours since he's checked in, and you were starting to get anxious. Nodding and smiling at the man who's finished selling you your meats, you finish the conversation as quickly as you can. Hurrying over to a less occupied part of the building, you push the green button on your comm to talk back. 

"Hey," you say in a hushed whisper, though there's no need. "What's going on?" 

His reply is instant. "What took you so long to answer?" He sounds out of breath, like he's been running or climbing. Maybe fighting. Or hell, all three. 

"I was in the middle of buying something," You answer, noticing Grem steal a fruit from the backpack’s side pocket. At first you reach to take it away, but decide to let him have it. He's been _hungry_ today. The juice dribbles down his face, his clothes, and the bag, but you can't bring yourself to care. All that matters is getting back to the _Crest_ with all this. A bath can come after. "Did you -- did you get him?" 

You hear a rustling on Din's end, and a stranger releases a stream of curses in Basic so vile that you rush to cover Grem's ears. There's a thud and a yelp, and the stranger goes silent. 

"I got him." 

_Thank the Maker_. Din's coming home. Kriff, when did you start thinking of that cramped tin can as _home_? 

"Well, thank goodness for that. I was afraid _I'd_ have to take up the Mandalorian mantle." 

"Hilarious." Okay, so he's still not in a good mood. That, or he doesn't want to make jokes around the bounty. You try not to take it personally, either way. Mostly.

"Um... I'm done here. Rendezvous at the ship?" Your pack is loaded heavy with rations, some basic needs, and one or two fun things you couldn't resist. This little town on Garel sure had a colorful market, for being so out in the middle of nowhere. 

"Right. See you there -- travel safe." Din's tone is gruff, but at least his words aren't loaded with tension like they were hours before. You take it as a good sign. Now all you have to do is meet him at the _Razor Crest_ , and things can go back to -- well, normal isn't the word. The way they're supposed to be. You ache for it. 

" _K'oyacyi_ ," you tell him, hoping he understands. The line drops. As it does, you feel a strange emptiness on your hip where the satchel sits. Grem is -- Grem is _gone_. 

Frantic, your head snaps up, and you spot him weaving between a family's legs. He's headed for the front of the store. 

" _Grem --!_ " 

You scream his name, he _has_ to hear it, but he doesn't slow down. A few people stop what they're doing to stare at you, but you can't afford to be self-conscious about it. The entire reason you’re here is to protect the child. He’s slipping away from you as your panicked mind scrambles for what to do. Too slow, you get to your feet and lurch after him. He isn’t fast and the shop isn’t huge -- but you aren’t quick enough. 

By the time you snatch him up, he’s put out one hand, eyes narrowed in focus straight ahead of him. He stares at the ronto roast behind the counter, framed by two employees whose looks of confusion are turning to fear. The massive thing starts to shake and then _lifts_ slightly off of its wooden posts. Every eye in the store is turned on you now. _Oh no. Of all the times, of all the_ places -- Your thoughts dart back to when he’d gripped your arm with the same intensity. Such a little creature, but in that moment unable to be moved. This must be what’s going on now. You shake him, try and get him to snap out of it, but Grem acts as if in a trance. The posts holding the roast in place are making an awful groan, as if they’re about to give out and snap. 

A hand slaps down hard on your shoulder, and you gasp. 

“Excuse me, but _what_ is going on?” It’s the man you bought from earlier -- but now he isn’t smiling. 

Your tongue ties itself in knots. What explanation could you have for this? 

"I -- I --" you draw Grem tighter, protecting him from the vendor's glare, trying to hide what he's doing. 

"Is there a reason for you to be shouting in the middle of my shop?" The Toydarian man's wings flutter at double speed; he's clearly irritated. 

_Oh shit. He doesn't know yet._ There might still be time for you to escape without too much suspicion. If the vendor doesn't know that Grem's using his -- his _powers_ , as Din calls them, then why should anyone else? 

"I'm so sorry," you begin, your voice shaking. A lie arranges itself at the forefront of your brain, smooth and easy. "I almost lost my master's favorite pet. He would have been furious if I returned to him without it. Now if you'll excuse me --" 

The roast falls with a _BANG_ you can feel at the bottom of your stomach as you run for the door. Screams bloom out behind you, but you don't stick around to see the glass of the counter display shatter. All that matters is getting the hell out of here. Your feet pound the pavement, Grem bouncing under one arm as you pull the wrist comm up to your mouth. 

"Din? Um. Something -- something happened." 

\-----

You don't stop running until you _can't_ anymore. Gasping for air, every muscle straining, you collapse in an alley on the far end of town close to where you came in. You feel your pulse in your head, your throat, your fingertips. On your wrist, the communicator’s red tracking beacon blinks, fast and steady. That’s the only thing keeping you from having a complete breakdown. 

When you’d called him, it had taken an agonizingly long time to get an answer. This only made your fear spark into panic; had a bounty finally bested him? Were you alone here? Breathing was getting harder and harder to do -- hysteria closing around your windpipe like a fist. Din finally picks up after your sixth or seventh attempt. By then, you’re several blocks from the market, moving casually and trying to blend in. Once you get to another empty street, you’ll run again. 

“What’s going on?” He’s hard to hear over the low whine of what sounds like a speeder bike. “Miona? What happened?” Judging from the urgency in his tone, he must have seen all your missed attempts to connect. 

“Grem,” you say, looking down at the sleeping baby in his satchel. “He --”

“Where’s the kid? Did someone --?” Din’s voice tightens again in fear. 

“He’s fine.” You try to get some moisture back in your throat. “We’re fine, for now, but we -- we might be wanted.” You force a smile at a couple that passes you, and they smile back. Not suspicious. Yet. 

“Explain.” 

Still moving among the townsfolk, keeping one ear open for the wail of a Republic siren, you tell him everything. Grem still doesn’t stir as you recount his misdeeds. 

On Din’s end, you hear the speeder come to an abrupt halt. 

“ _Fuck._ ” Across the line, the distinct whine of a blaster being charged. 

“What’s --?” 

But before you get your answer, it’s fired. 

Your heart lurches into your mouth. _Kriff. Was that the Bith? Did Din just get shot?_

You start thanking every god you know of when it’s Din’s voice that crackles through the line to answer. “Get somewhere and hide. I’m on my way. Activate the tracking function when you know you’re alone.” 

The only thing you can manage is a weak, “Okay.” He doesn’t give you a goodbye this time. Seeing each other sooner than you hoped will have to suffice. 

\------

An hour passes before you hear the growl of a bike far in the distance. There have been a few here in town that made you perk up, but all started and stopped too close for it to have been Din. It’s well into mid-afternoon now, and Grem has started to stir from his nap. Still groggy, he fusses in your lap, not willing to be conscious. You smooth the silvery-white fuzz on his head, not sure whether to feel angry or sad. _Not a lot of control_ \-- that’s how Din had described the way his abilities worked. Holding his sleepy body against yours, it’s hard to place too much blame. 

“Your _buir_ is coming,” you tell the child. 

To your amusement, he looks up, ears twitching. 

“Do you know that word?” You smile a little. He’s never reacted to the words you’ve tried to sneak in. Little lessons sprinkled throughout his day are always ignored. But this is something; a sign that he gets it. Maybe this day isn’t a total bust. 

From the opening of the alleyway, the sound of the bike drones louder. The beacon on your wrist comm is blinking faster than ever; he should only be minutes away now. With a sigh, you get to your feet. Finally time to leave this place. After being stuck in panic mode for so long, you can’t say you’ll be sad to see it shrink into a speck from the _Crest’s_ cockpit. Nothing personal, Garel. You'd come back for those wicked chocolate pastries. 

Grem sits up straight in your lap, babbling. There’s no change in the sound of the speeder, but sure enough, one noses its way into the alley, idling at a purr. Din appears seconds after, covered in the planet’s purple grime in every spot that isn’t shielded by beskar. Tied across the back of the bike is a cloth-wrapped bundle that you’re sickeningly sure is a body. He eases the speeder bike to a stop a few feet in front of you, helmet tilted towards your face. 

Seeing him fucking _melts_ you. On your own, it’s easy to keep your head up, to keep moving -- it’s what you’ve always done. But having Din has made you soft. You didn’t realize _how_ soft until he was gone for this long. You didn’t know how much it took for you to hold it all together until you didn’t have to anymore. 

Maybe he sees your lip trembling like a child’s, but if he does, he says nothing. You feel like an idiot -- almost two weeks without seeing each other and you can’t even say _hi_ without feeling like you’re about to burst into tears. Din jerks his head toward the bike, gesturing for you to hop on. He says nothing to Grem, but gives him a look that seems to tell of words that will be spoken later. 

“We’ve worn out our welcome. C’mon.” 

When you get back to the _Crest_ , your hair is in knots from the wind. You don’t mind -- going by bike took you less than half the time it took to walk. Anything to save your blistered and bleeding feet is fine at this point. You clung to Din _far_ tighter than was necessary -- half out of fear, half because you could. Hearing the ramp creak open is almost like a symphony. 

Din turns to you as he dismounts, leaving a plume of Garellian dust behind as his cloak swings. “Take him upstairs?” He reaches for one of your hands and laces your fingers together, squeezing before letting go. “I’ll be...a minute.” His helmet turns back to the speeder, to the bundle tied on the back. 

You nod, not wanting to stick around to see what’s underneath. “I’ll start the ship.” _That_ you could handle; flying, not so much. 

He mutters his thanks before turning away, and you wish that there weren’t more things that stood between now and the moment you’d get to kiss him again. To ask him what the hell had taken so long to come back to you. To hold every part of him against you, to feel him breathe. To see if he likes the pastry you brought back. There were so many things to catch up on. For now, though -- he has his job to do, and you have yours. 

\-----

Stars are streaking by in a steady wave by the time things have gone back to relative peace. The rations have long been put away, leaving storage well stocked for the next week or two. All three of you have taken turns rinsing the various levels of accumulated dirt and grime off. At the very end of the lower deck, the body has been frozen in carbonite. (Din seemed to realize that they unnerved you and started storing them further from your room.) It’s so ironic that you feel more at home in the belly of a gunship than anywhere else you’ve been in recent memory. 

You’re on your knees next to Grem’s crib, watching his eyelids flutter as he fights sleep. Upstairs, Din is waiting for you to finish putting him to bed, but you can’t bring yourself to hurry. Little guy’s had a hard day, and you feel for him. What happened today wasn’t something he could control -- you know that. Any anger has melted away. This is Grem, after all. The same kid you chase up and down the hallway, feed and bathe every day. Like Din, you wish you knew more about him, but resign yourself to loving him the way he is. 

“Sleep, _ad’ika_ ,” you whisper. Finally, his little eyes close. You adjust his stuffed kiros bird so that it’s tucked a little closer. The crib closes and you walk away, trying to be as quiet as you can. With any luck, he’ll sleep through the night and into the late morning. 

When you pop your head into the upper deck, Din already has his chair swiveled toward you. His posture is much looser than you’re used to; legs spread, shoulders back. His arms are crossed at the wrist, as if he’s been expecting you for some time. 

“ _Sarad_ ,” he says in greeting, the word almost a sigh. “Come here.” 

“Will I fit?” You laugh, stepping off the ladder. The _Crest’s_ controls are only about a foot away from the seat; it doesn’t leave any wiggle room. But maybe that’s exactly why he wants you there. 

He makes a sound low in his throat, fingers flexing in his lap. “It’s been _ages_ \--”

“Ten days, Din --”

“And I want you here, on my lap. Indulge me?” 

You roll your eyes a little, trying to act like his words aren’t eating you up inside. When you reach him, his hands are on you at once, hungry. He pulls you up over the arm of the chair like you weigh nothing, letting you legs dangle over one end. His helmet nudges the side of your head fondly once you’re settled. “Missed you.” 

Stars, you’re weak for him. “Bet I missed you more,” you counter. You can feel his cock hardening against the curve of your ass, pressed directly into one another. 

“Impossible.” His breath is unsteady through the modulator. One of his gloved hands roams to your breast, slowly squeezing and massaging. “Do you know how many times I wished I was here with you, doing this, instead of hunting a spice dealer through those Maker-forsaken canyons?” 

In your mind, you can see it. Din, weary after another unsuccessful day. It would be late in the cycle before he gave up. Maybe cleaning his blaster, or eating some of the rations you sent with him. Or... touching himself, thinking of you, making as little noise as possible in fear of creating echoes. His helmet tilted back, your name in his mouth as he came in a near-silent gasp. _Kriff_. You squirm, feeling yourself tingling at the thought. 

“Is there more to it?” You wriggle in his lap, pushing further down onto him. His cock twitches against the stimulation, and Din shifts, lifting both of you up in the process. 

“Of course.” He swivels the chair away from the _Crest’s_ control panel, lifting you as he moves to stand. “There were -- several steps.” 

Your heart thuds, more from anticipation than from being lifted so suddenly. You dangle in his arms, feeling as small as a child. _Several steps_. Good to know that his imagination was running as wild as yours was, when the two of you were apart. 

“Show me, _troan’gemas_.” 

“Only if you stop calling me that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter yet! Also known as the "Grogu was hangry" chapter. I couldn't reunite Din and Miona at the end and NOT have them canoodle, a little. Next chapter they will... canoodle more. Who came up with that word? Heh. Hope you enjoyed. Stay safe and well, as always. :)
> 
> Sincerely,  
> WickedScribbles.
> 
> Mando'a - mandowords dot tumblr dot com
> 
> ad'ika - little one, son, daughter  
> sarad - flower, bloom  
> k'oyacyi - "Come back safely" , "Stay alive"  
> buir - father  
> troan'gemas - face hair, beard


	8. The Radio

Convincing Din to get a radio is the smartest thing you've done so far. 

After spying the huge hunk of metal and wires sitting out in front of a parts shop, you weren't even sure what it was. But the owner knew that it had caught your eye, and explained that it was a radio transmitter made for old-time ships. He couldn't sell it, and had set it out on the street to let scrappers take it away the next morning. It seemed like the perfect coincidence. You asked if he'd be willing to give it to you instead. He agreed, and the only thing it cost you was a few credits to borrow a speeder, to cart it out to the _Crest_. 

Din lowers the ramp, watching you bump up and down the hilly terrain. His arms cross as he leans against the metal frame, and he shakes his head. You weren't the best pilot for even the smallest of vehicles -- you _fixed_ them, you didn't drive them. It felt like a sure thing that he was laughing at you as you came to a screeching halt, six feet past where you'd tried to park. 

"Shut up," you call out, swinging a leg out of the speeder. 

His shoulders are shaking with chuckles you can't hear. "I didn't say a thing." 

You get to work unhooking the ties, noting the color of the wires and the type of buttons in more detail. Yes, it's made for an old ship; even older than the _Crest_. But with a lot of work and a little luck, it _might_ be compatible. 

"What'd you drag in, pet?" Din saunters up beside you, hands clasped behind his back. 

Your _beroya_ has been in a particularly good mood the past week, and it's contagious. Maybe it's because the past few jobs have gone so well. He almost waltzes through them -- you're rarely without him for more than a day or two. You and Grem are more than appreciative to have him back so quickly. The _Razor Crest_ dances from planet to planet like she never stopped moving in the first place. 

And… the mood between you feels like things are about to boil over into something more. Even now, outside the ship where anyone could see, the tension is high. 

He's brought his hands out from behind his back, placed them on each of your hips. Each gets the lightest squeeze. He's standing right behind you; so close that his chestplate brushes your shoulder blades. You shiver, despite the temperate climate. He loves to disable you like this. Make it impossible for you to remember what you were thinking. You love to let him. 

"Radio," you stammer out, red. "Parts shop gave it away. Wanted to --" his hands ghost higher, tracing the bottom of your breasts through the tunic -- "see if it'd -- work in the. The thing." 

"'The thing?'" He's smiling, you can tell even through the helmet's modulator. 

You let out a frustrated huff. " _Din_." 

"That's _almost_ the way I like hearing you say my name." With his hands still halfway to your tits in the middle of an open field, he _presses_ himself into your ass. He's hard for you, and all you're doing is standing here. "Tell me more, petal." 

Your head is swimming. There might as well not even _be_ a radio in front of you anymore -- or a speeder, for that matter. There's too much sensation for you to focus on to care about what you're seeing. But because you know he likes this, you try to tell him. 

"Um," you begin, taking in a shaky breath as he _grinds_ into you. "This was mass produced about t-twenty-five years ago." 

"Seems right." He's trying to keep his own tone even, but you can hear how hard he's breathing through his nose. One of his hands reaches higher, circling your nipple with a gentle squeeze. You whine, pushing back into his body at the feeling. The other goes lower, tracing circles on your stomach. "What else?"

Shit. What else. What else? You can barely hang onto your name. 

"It…" You're struggling now. Din's cock is completely solid, and he's thrusting shallowly against your ass. His _huff_ of breath comes near your ear every time, dotted with needy little noises that are making you soak your panties. "It...plays music if you install it." 

He laughs a little, and you don't blame him. Your brain cells all jumped ship several minutes ago. The hand on your stomach runs lower, lower, lifting the hem of your tunic. 

"Is that -- all?" Din's own voice is shaking apart in your ear, though he's still trying to tease you. He's moving your underwear to the side, sliding gloved fingers over your soaking slit. 

" _Yes_ ," you cry out, not referring to his question in the slightest. 

"Oh _fuck_ Miona --" Din takes his hand off your tit and places it back on your hip, anchoring himself to thrust into you harder. At the same time, he _forces_ two fingers inside you, and you can't help the sound you make. "You're fucking soaked -- God, I want to -- I _want_ \--" 

You'd love to take this opportunity to tease _him_ now, but the only thing you can think is _cock_ and _finger me harder_ and _yeeeeeessss_. 

"Want to what?" You gasp out. 

Breathing hard, Din walks you two steps forward so that your legs cut into the side of the speeder. Angling himself so that your body has to follow, he bends, and you bend with him. Your palms splay on the speeder's flat end, your ass arched out for him. 

"Want to take you like this," he growls in your ear. 

Every fiber of you is screaming _Do it! Fuck me!_

Balancing one hand on the radio, you're shimmying your underwear to your knees when you hear it. Something in the tall grass, only feet away. You freeze under Din's wandering hands. He hears it too -- with a curse, he's pulling away, turning toward the sound. Your panties are still around your ankles, and you rush to pull them back where they belong. 

" _Dank farrik_ ," he mutters again, one hand on his blaster. "Stay here." 

Despite the potential of danger, you can't help but admire the outline of his engorged dick through his pants as he circles the speeder. You hear a click as he activates a different function on the side of his helmet. After a few seconds of scanning, he lets out a long sigh. Din wades into the grass, and bends down to examine something that you can't see. 

"You're not gonna believe who slipped past us." 

"Tell me you're kidding." Yes, he'd left the _Crest's_ ramp open, but when you'd spoken over the comm, Grem had been fast asleep. 

"Nope." Din turns back to you, holding the wriggling baby at arm's length. "You're going to have to try harder than that if you're making a break for it, kid." 

Grem lets you both know how angry he is about being caught by punctuating the air with his little fists, letting out a whine as he does. 

"Back inside," Din tells him, tucking the baby under his arm. To you, he adds, "be back in a minute to help you unload that thing.". 

Still half dazed, all you can do is watch as he walks away. You almost don't remember the work ahead of you that the radio will bring. Every muscle is still pining for what's now been majorly delayed, due to Grem being awake. _Might as well forget about it._

With a long sigh, you pick up where you left off, untying your found treasure. 

\----- 

" _Son of a --_ " As you watch, your flashlight falls into the hole you've cut in the control panel, forever becoming a part of the _Crest's_ belly. Taking a deep breath, you turn your head and scream into the worn material of the pilot's seat. 

Fuck. This. Your knees and back ache from being crouched for so long. Lifting the heft of the radio over and over, then crawling behind it to connect wires, has left you exhausted. Worst of all, there's yet to be one sign of life from it. 

Din and Grem are downstairs having dinner. He'd asked if you wanted to join them, to take a break, but you'd refused. Some stupid, stubborn part of you wanted to _defeat_ this. To finish before the day ended. But the cycle is waning -- the cockpit's huge window gives you an almost accusatory view of the setting suns. 

Sweaty and annoyed, you set your blowtorch down. Defeat at the hands of a worn-out radio wasn't how you wanted to end your day, but that's how it's going to be. 

Half of your trouble might be that your mind keeps wandering. Any time that Grem falls quiet from the lower deck, it gives you the perfect opportunity to daydream. A part of you is still out in that field, bent over the speeder. _Waiting_ for Din to lift your skirt and sink into you. You’ve held that cock in your hand -- _stars_ , how good it would feel to finally have it stretching your walls?

It's been four months since you boarded the _Crest_. Though you and Din have been intimate in almost every other way, he's yet to initiate making love to you. You’re not sure why he’s holding back -- you’re positive he knows what he’s doing in _that_ particular field. Still, it’s not like you felt pressured to jump into it. You could have always made the move, had you not felt your needs were being fulfilled. The heated moments you’ve shared up until now have all been satisfying, more than enough to sate you. _Until today_ , you think, biting your lip.

Maker, his confession of wanting to take you is ringing in your ears. Functioning had been easy before he’d gone and put that idea in your head. 

“Okay up there?” Din’s near the base of the ladder, talking to you. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, still half holding on to those thoughts. “I’m going to get some food and come down, okay?” 

“Alright.” 

Standing up with creaking knees, you cast one last glower at the old radio. At least if you couldn’t get it to work, you can have the satisfaction of dropping it from the bottom of the _Crest_ and watching it shatter.

“Hey there,” Din says, once you shimmy down the ladder with your dinner. He’s sitting cross-legged in the hallway, watching Grem gnaw on the end of a fork. 

“He’ll chew right through that thing,” You warn, settling down beside them. It isn't a gesture of maternal worry; you've _seen_ him bite through one. Then you’d had to stick your fingers in his mouth to fish out the rest of it. 

“It’s steel,” he says, sounding horrified. He takes the thing out of Grem’s mouth, met with a pouting look. 

“He’s a magic baby.” You shrug, scooting Grem into your lap to avoid any whining from said baby. “Hey, kiddo. What’ve you and Dad been doing down here?” The warmth of Din’s body through his flight suit isn’t doing anything to calm the storm of thoughts raging in your head. 

"Listening to you swear at your project," he teases. "think we both learned some new ones." 

Your ears burn hotter than the mouthful of soup you just swallowed. "I did _not --_ " 

Well, you had. A lot. But you were certain that it had all been under your breath. 

"What was that one we heard a few hours ago, bud?" Din places his palm on the chin of his helmet as if in thought, turning to Grem. "Had something to do with a bantha and a Jawa getting a little too friendly." 

You cover your face and let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, sinking onto his shoulder. "I'm _sorry_. It's been such a pain in the --" you catch yourself, remembering Grem, "-- it's been frustrating." 

"Want to know something?" 

"What?" You're feeding Grem the fruit that you brought for yourself, a sucker for a pair of big brown eyes. 

"It's cute when you're frustrated." 

As if you weren't blushing _enough_. You can't look at him, not used to such a direct compliment. Usually he's all about soft touches, being connected somehow. It could be the simplest of things; his hand in yours, or your legs touching as you ate, as they do now. Words aren't a part of the equation, unless you're being intimate. To have him _say_ something like that to you out of nowhere is such a surprise. It feels like you've been knocked on your ass. 

Unsure of how to answer, you grumble a vague protest. Stars, your face is _burning_. Your knees come up to your chest, shielding against any more unexpected kindness. 

Din chuckles at your whole display. One large hand plants on your knee, fingers flexing. "You don't like it when I call you cute?" 

His voice is light, not accusatory by any means. One might even say he was _flirting. Dank farrik,_ Din Djarin. You didn't know how much more of this your heart could handle. 

Not entertained by this, Grem wriggles free of your grasp. Deciding that you're not interesting anymore, he toddles down the hall, cooing to himself. As you watch, he becomes interested in trying to jump high enough to reach the button that will open the ramp. 

"I just -- didn't expect it," you breathe. Din notices that the kid's occupied himself, too, and has taken this opportunity of distraction to place himself right in front of you. 

"Maybe I should say it more often, then." His face is inches from yours, and Maker, you wish you could see it. 

"If -- if you want." Stars. He's just looking at you, so _close_ , like he needs to memorize every detail. You can't get a proper breath like this. 

"Will you hide?" He's smiling, you know it, and your heart is swelling for this soft man with the hard shell. 

You shake your head, a little anxious to hear what's going to come out of his mouth. 

He sighs and settles back, crossing his legs. One of his hands taps fingers on his knee, as if he's considering what to say. You see yourself in the reflection of his helmet; grease smears on your clothes, your expression apprehensive. A hot mess, your default setting. 

"I like the face you make when you think," he says finally. "Your mouth goes to the side, and your nose scrunches. And -- I like how much the kid likes you. I like that you sing in the shower, but only in a language I don't understand. Your voice is nice." 

_Oh shit_. You didn't know he could hear you in there, for one thing. You tilt your face away, overwhelmed with all _this_ , but Din gently raises your face back to his with a hand. "Hey. You said no hiding." 

He keeps going. 

"I like _these_." His fingers trace over the myriad of freckles that dot your body. "Even if you don't. I like your breasts, your hips, your -- okay, all of it." Din laughs once, an almost sheepish sound. "You're -- you're _lovely, sarad_." There's a tenderness in his voice that's causing your own throat to tighten, and you fight to choke it down.

There's not a word you can think of to say -- all wit has left you. _Thank you_ seems too small a phrase after the massive self-esteem boost he's seen fit to give you. 

"Din," you manage, "I -- you -- really think that?" 

The visor looks right at you, tilted a little. "I wouldn't lie to you."

That was that, then. You'd given your heart over completely to this Mandalorian. Any doubt about what he thought of you had just… floated off. He thought of you as more than useful to have around for Grem. More than a partner there to scratch an itch he happened to have that day. Here was the proof that you couldn’t deny; Din liked you. More earnestly and openly than anyone ever had. It was terrifying. 

So ironic that all anyone else ever saw was the cold glint of beskar, the masterful way he handled a weapon. Inside the _Crest_ , he was so much more. A selfish part of you enjoyed that you and Grem were the only ones who knew him. Why share, anyway? Your world, your clan, is a small one. _Easier to protect_ , you think with a sudden fierceness. If anything happened to either one of them, you’d be completely lost. Din always talks about how smart and special his child is, but he doesn’t know that you’ve come to feel the same way about him. You’re not skilled in any sort of weaponry -- that much is clear. But if anyone were to come for your _evaar’la aliit_ , you would tear them apart with your bare hands. 

“Hey. Miona.” 

Din’s voice comes to you as if from miles away, though he’s sitting right in front of you. You blink, bringing him back into focus. 

“There’s the look.” Again, affection creeps into his familiar baritone. 

“What look?” At last, you get the nerve to make eye contact -- _helmet_ contact -- again. 

“The cute one.” 

_Shit_. 

\-----

The ship is quiet when Din knocks on your door. You tucked Grem away in his crib pod an hour or so ago. Din had gone to plug in new coordinates after seeing that his _ad'ika_ was sleeping, but the way his hands lingered on you promised that he'd be back. Anticipation flutters in your stomach like a swarm of flitnats as the hatch opens, revealing the man whose words -- both lustful and sweet -- have been consuming you all day. 

There’s not a piece of armor on him, save the helmet. A slight _clunk_ outside the door tells you that he’s left it there in a neat pile, should he need to don it again in a hurry. His cloak and ammo must be out there as well. 

“Hi,” he greets, ducking to slide into your small space. He’s not wearing boots, either -- to your amusement, his socks are mismatched and brightly colored. 

“Hey,” you smile, shifting forward on the cot to squeeze one of his feet. “Nice look.” 

“Life Day gift,” he says, and you can’t tell whether he’s joking or not. 

You snort. “I think you just like flashy socks.” He opens his arms, and it’s instinct now to fold yourself into them. He smells like cedarwood soap and leather, so familiar that you’re sure you could pick the scent out of a crowd.

“Not denying it,” he murmurs. He tucks your body under his chin, pulling you close. 

Gods, it feels so _right_. So _normal_ to be here. Years of no contact with anyone, and now every day he finds a way to touch you in a way that makes you feel both fragile and strong. A hand cards through your hair, pulling the elastic loose with one expert twist. You could fall asleep to the feeling of him running his fingers over your hair and scalp, slow and methodical. Right now your mind is too awake with possibilities. Still, you can’t stop the happy _mmm_ that escapes your lips as he uses the handful of hair to tilt your neck. 

“ _That._ I like that, too.” His voice is quiet, low from the modulator. Still working on his list, it seems. As if the conversation hadn’t stopped hours ago.

You compel yourself not to blush and avoid him like you had earlier, right outside this room. You are an adult. You can have these conversations. Even if it makes your insides feel like they're being mixed around with a boiling hot poker. 

“Why so nice to me all of a sudden?” You keep your tone playful, burrowing deeper into him. 

It was a joke, but he considers it like you’d asked him in deadly seriousness. It’s quiet for what feels like minutes. The two of you breathe through the empty space, hearing the _Crest_ whoosh and chug around you. As you’re about to tell him not to worry about it, you get the answer. 

“I’m not...great with words. I’m trying to be better.” It’s a simple reply, so fitting for him. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Look, you’re making me say more words.” He bops you on the top of the head with the helmet, and it occurs to you that he might be as bad at this _feelings_ thing as you are. Partners had told you in the past, had even left you for it. It was something that stung, but never enough to hurt for long. You brushed it off, kept moving. Now you know what they meant. You _are_ bad at it. You're realizing that Din makes you want to be better. 

He continues, unaware of your revelation. “It occurred to me that I value you far more than I let you know. So... I want to tell you more often.” Maker, he got right to the point of it. There were no frills to the way he told you that you mean something to him, so why does it make you light up? “ _If_ that’s okay. You seem to be allergic to compliments.” 

“Pfft. I have -- an intolerance, okay?” He has to be rolling his eyes at you. You wriggle out of his grasp, turning so that your head rests in his lap. Din rests his hands on your chest, shifting to place you firmly against the vee of his legs. “You said words were hard for you. _Hearing_ them can be hard for me.” 

Din nods, as if that’s perfectly understandable. Thank Kriff he doesn’t ask you to explain, because you don’t really have a reason. His trust is more than worth its weight in credits in moments like this. 

“Speaking of.” You change your mind, reach up and touch the curve of his throat, feeling flesh and metal collide at the bottom of his helmet. His heartbeat is fluttering under your fingertips. “I’m… sorry that I froze up earlier.” 

“It’s fine, _sarad_.” He leans into your palm, and you feel the warmth of his sigh. “Like you said. Compliment intolerance.” 

“But I wanted to tell _you_ things. I have my own list, you know,” you say. You let your fingertips move up and down his throat, teasing near his collarbone. His neck is so sensitive, and you can feel through his trousers how even the lightest of touches affects him. 

“Alright,” he swallows, breath quickening as you replace fingertips with your mouth. 

Where to begin? So many things you’d like to tell him; a few that might be going too far for where your relationship currently stands. Between kisses, you place your own list of endearments to his skin. 

“I like that you’re a great father to Grem. That kid fucking adores you. I like your sense of humor. If you weren’t funny, I probably would have thrown myself out of the air lock by now.” He laughs against you at that, genuine and unabashed. 

“I like that about you, too.”

“I like…” you pause to think, breathing against his shoulder. You tug the material of his shirt down, but he does you one better -- with a quick movement, he’s wriggling out it. He holds you close, bare chested, and it’s getting harder to think. There’s so much golden _skin_ here to stare at, captivating you every time. He wears each scar like a piece of art. “I like _this_. Um. And your shoulders. Your skin. Your hair.” 

“You’ve never seen my hair,” he protests shakily, tugging at your own top. Willingly, you still, letting him pull it up and over your head. Just like that, you’re sitting there in only your panties, and he in trousers. You have a feeling they won’t be around much longer. His naked skin is so warm, a contrast to the cool air of the _Crest_ , and you let him hold your body tight against his as you struggle to think of more things to say. Stars, you have a _novella_ of things to tell him -- but the sound of him panting in your ear erases rational thought. 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t like it,” you argue. “It’s -- soft. I like... how easy you make things look, even though I know you’re just good at everything. I like how you protect us. I like the things you say...when we’re doing things like this.” 

“Petal.” The word is a huff of breath through the modulator, tight and restricted. 

“Hmm?” You grind against his crotch, let your wetness tease him through your panties. Keeping your eyes on where you know his are through the blackness of the visor, you work the snaps of his pants open. His solid length is begging to be touched -- you pull it up and out of his underwear. 

“I meant -- I meant what I said earlier. About wanting to take you.” His cock jerks upward, as if in agreement. “Is that -- do you want --?” 

“Kriff, Din, _yes_ ,” you groan, grinding against his leg. You’d only been wanting it every hour, every second, since he’d said it to you. “You think there’s a scenario where I _wouldn’t_ want to fuck you? Take off your _pants_ \--” 

Breathless, he lifts his hips to do as you asked. You take the opportunity to rid yourself of your last piece of clothing, and within seconds you’re back on top of him. A trail of pre-come dribbles down the head of his cock, just inches from your entrance. He’s so _thick_. Din leans back, fully stretched out on your cramped little cot now. The top of his helmet scrapes the door. You’re about to lower yourself onto him when he puts a hand on your hip, forcing you to pause. 

“Do you have something? Protection?” His grip is tighter than you’re used to. It feels like he’s holding back, for your sake. You appreciate the thought. The last thing either of you need is one more _ad’ika_ running around, had you been unprepared. 

You point to the tiny chip sitting under the skin of your right bicep. “Implant. First thing I did on Coruscant.” 

Din chuckles, an airless sound as he shifts under you. “You have no clue how glad I am to hear that.” 

And finally, after what feels like years of waiting for it, you sink down onto the head of his cock. Din responds with a shuddering gasp, _leaning_ into you as far as his hips will take him. You stay there, letting it sit between your folds. 

“How do you want it?” you purr, running hands down his sides. 

“Don’t -- don’t tease me, _sarad_. Just _move_.” He sounds wrecked already -- and his grip on your thighs says that he’s not in the mood for games. Seeing him powerless underneath you is doing something to your head. To have someone so powerful begging for you to fuck them is going straight to your ego. 

So you give him what he wants; slowly. Dear _Maker_ , you have to stretch to take him. You breathe through it, the pleasure-pain of being so _full_ after years of nothing but fingers and tongue. You whimper, clenching around the length of him just as Din utters his own broken sound of bliss. 

“Okay?” His hand finds yours, the gesture so familiar in all of this newness.

In answer, you lift off of him, almost letting him slide out, then _sink_ back down in one long, delicious push. 

“ _O-ohh, sarad,_ ” he sighs, helmet tilted back. “You feel so _good._ " 

You moan in response, too strung out for words. Your pussy is starting to adjust to him, and you shift your hips lower, taking more of him until you bottom out. 

" _Fuck_ ," Din hisses, digging nails into your skin. His breath is a staccato rhythm from the modulator, his whole body tense with the effort of not thrusting up into you just yet, to let you adjust to the feeling of him inside you. "Miona. Fuck me. Please, it's been -- fucking _ages_ \--" 

A switch flips in your brain when you hear him utter the words _fuck me_ so shamelessly. And he asked so nicely, how could you make him wait any longer? You snap your hips into his, keeping a slow, deep rhythm. You swear you can feel every ridge and vein that his dick has to offer rubbing against your walls. 

" _Miona_ ," his voice is low and throaty, saying your name like a spell or a prayer. He's trying so _hard_ to meet your hips, to get more friction. His little gasps of effort are going straight to your core. Without even meaning to, you start giving him what he wants -- a little faster, a little harder. Your body instinctively wants to please him. 

"Want to kiss you," you tell him, biting your lip. Seeing him is nice, but feeling his mouth on yours, being able to touch his face, is better. 

"Do you have the --?" 

But you're already pulling the new silk blindfold from under your pillow, tying it over your eyes. In seconds, he has his helmet off, and you reach for him. 

When his lips touch yours, he makes a sound like a starving man who's bitten into a piece of meat. It never ceases to surprise you, how warm and _real_ he is under the helmet, how good he tastes. He plants a hand on each of your shoulders and _pushes_ you down into the cot, rising up like the ocean to top you. 

"My turn," he whispers. You feel his lips on your neck, his body framing yours. "Does that please you?" 

You nod frantically, seeking out his mouth with yours. " _You_ please me, _cyar’ika_. Anything you want." 

Din pauses a moment, and for a moment you think he's going to ask about the new word. He settles instead for circling his thumb around your clit, pumping inside you at an increasing pace. The combination sends licks of fire down your thighs, and you _whine_ at the overwhelming feeling. 

"You like that, pet?" Din huffs against your mouth, drinking up any needy sounds that escape you. He's working your clit fast and _hard_ , overloading you on sensitivity. Any other time he's touched you has been relatively drawn out, but it seems that his own pleasure is skewing things. 

" _Yes. Din,_ " you stammer, arching off of the cot to get closer to what his fingers are doing to you. He's thrusting into you with a steady _slap slap slap_ rhythm now, moaning your name between bites on your neck. 

" _Miona._ Fuck -- you're so -- so _tight_. I --" His breath hitches, and you feel him press _deep_ into your core. "I want you to come -- around my cock. Can you do that? Will you do that for me?" 

You nod, whimpering as your climax makes itself known deep at the bottom of your stomach. "I'm close. I'm -- any minute now --" 

Your body must think _minute_ means _second_ , because as his mouth sucks over your nipple you _come_ , hard and fast and dizzy. "Din -- oh, _Din_ , fuck _yes, I'm coming, yes --!_ " Just when you think it's stopped, another wave is coaxed out of you -- Din never stops touching you during an orgasm until you bat his hand away. 

Your foggy brain notices that something is different -- he's gone completely still inside you, breathing heavily. 

"Why'd...you stop?" You slur when your mouth remembers how to open. 

"Was about to -- to come inside you," he says, touching his sweat-slicked forehead to your own. "Do you want --?" 

"Absofuckinglutely I _want_. Din Djarin, come inside me _right now_ ," you demand, hazy with lust and the disbelief that someone would actually fucking _ask_ before spilling their seed inside your cunt. 

"Yes, ma'am," he growls, pushing himself up onto all fours and _ramming_ into your soaking slit. The sound you make is somewhere between utter bliss and complete surprise -- a squeak and a moan. 

"Oh fuck _yes_ ," you blurt out, arching into him. "Din. Like _that_." He pounds into your oversensitive orifice like it's an order he's hell bent on fulfilling -- his body a machine. 

"Yeah?" he practically purrs. You've never heard him like this. Every intimate encounter has been so gentle until now, you weren't even sure he _knew_ how to be this rough. "You like it when I pound you, _sarad_?" 

" _Yes --_ " 

"Like it w-when I -- fuck you so hard you -- forget your name?" 

"Din, _fuck_ , yes --" A second orgasm is about to rip through you, building on the sensitivity of the first. You hyperventilate under him, meeting every thrust with one of your own. 

"God, I'm going to -- to come so deep inside you," his voice is going high and ragged, a dead giveaway that he's right on the brink of his own release. "Want to feel you -- squeeze every drop out of me --" 

You come for a second time, letting out a too-loud sound that you barely manage to muffle in the curve of his shoulder. Four thrusts later and Din follows, and _stars_ , he fucking _howls_. 

" _Fuck!_ Fuck, that's _incredible_ \-- Miona -- oh, oh, _God, Miona, yes, fuck yes --_ " 

You'd never thought that that sound would come out of this man; a long cry of pleasure as his come fills you and fills you in warm spurts. It seems to be going on for hours -- his fingers are pressing hard enough into you to bruise. 

When he finally relaxes, a kiss brushes over your mouth, far gentler than anything that just occurred. The hairs of his mustache tickle your lip and you flinch away, grinning. You can feel his come trickling out of you, warm and wet on your thighs, but both of you are too tired to move to the washroom. 

"Din?" 

"Hmm?" He sounds like he's about to fall asleep. 

"I liked that." 

He only sighs through his nose, content to sit inside you for a moment longer. 

\------

There’s an unfamiliar sound buzzing on the edge of your consciousness. Someone’s saying something -- it’s not Din’s low, husky tone. Nor is it Grem’s high, nonsensical babble. You stir closer to the edge of waking as your brain tells you that this voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, almost as if… As if --

“ _Coming to you live from the Bardotta System! I’m Shups Iawz, and you’re listening to JFDF Radio! Where we play all the hits, and none of the holo-commercials._ ” 

Oh shit. Shit! You sit up straight in your nest of blankets, wide awake. _The radio_. The sound of the fuzzy broadcast is carrying down from the cockpit -- and you have to see the thing installed to believe it. Blinking sleep bleariness away, you climb up. Soreness radiates from your core as you go, a pleasant ache that reminds you of exactly what you were doing just hours before. 

Sure enough, the radio sits in the control panel, as if it had been there all along. Din did a fine job welding it in -- the seam isn’t noticeable if you aren’t looking for it. Grem is balancing on his _buir's_ knee in front of the thing, busy turning knobs and dials. Stations flit in and out, and you get seconds-long snippets of love ballads, operas, talk shows, pop hits. As usual, he seems to be turning knobs just for the sake of creating chaos. 

“How in the galaxy did you get that piece of junk to work?” you marvel, running a hand over the eagerly functioning display. 

He shrugs, bouncing the kid in his lap. “I had some motivation from an employee.” 

“ _Employee?_ Someone thinks they’re funny this morning.” You walk past him with your nose in the air, pretending to be offended. “Has this one had breakfast?” Grem is still too busy playing with the radio to notice you, and dodges your attempt to pat him on the head. 

“Yep. In between staring at his new favorite thing.” 

It’s hard to keep the fond smile off your face, watching the little guy so fascinated. Even if hearing two-second snippets of different channels cut off over and over again is already driving you crazy. 

“Alright.” That’s one thing marked off of today’s mental checklist. “What’s the plan for this week, captain?” His helmet turns to you sharply, and you can almost see the eye roll. He doesn’t like _captain_. Or _sir_ , or _Your Majesty_. Just Din. 

“I was thinking.” Din’s fingers drum on one of his thigh plates. “Might be nice to...take it easy for a few days.” 

“Really?” You perk up. The way you all live on the Crest has become routine, but you definitely won’t say no to a little change. “You mean...park for a few days? On some nice, green planet?” 

He nods, fingers still tapping away. “It’s been bounties nonstop since you came aboard. I’m used to it. But the kid...well. You remember what happened on Garel.” 

_Vividly,_ you think. 

“He must be bored,” Din continues. “I can’t take him anywhere populated. But I want to get him out of the ship for a few days; let him breathe some real air.” He plops a gloved hand on Grem’s head, and the kid finally turns to acknowledge something other than his new toy. These two are almost _too_ cute sometimes. 

“That’d be great for him,” you agree. “What did you have in mind?” 

Tapping a few buttons on the control panel, he brings up the holo-map and shows you. Leaning in close, with the man you lo -- _like_ on one side and his little one on the other, you feel as if nothing in the galaxy could take away from how _whole_ you feel. 

You close your eyes, and listen to the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG LONG CHAPTER, oh my gosh. This one really took it out of me. In which Miona has communication issues, but gets some sweet dick. Let me know what you thought!  
> Stay safe and stay well, guys.
> 
> Love,  
> WickedScribbles.
> 
> Mando'a - mandowords dot tumblr dot com
> 
> beroya - bounty hunter  
> evaar'la - new, young  
> aliit - family, clan  
> ad'ika - little one, son, daughter  
> sarad - flower, bloom  
> cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart  
> buir - father, mother


	9. The Fire and the Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning - brief descriptions of sexual assault -- specifically gang rape -- /trauma. I left it a little vague but I understand that this can still be harmful to some readers. Also, descriptions of an animal being hunted/killed/processed for the purpose of eating it, if that makes you queasy. Stay safe, readers!
> 
> **Edit: A reader has informed me that the content warning was not quite specific enough, and I have taken steps to make sure that the content in question does not trigger anyone else. Again, I am very sorry. I hope that this updated version will help.**

"Hyperdrive functional?" 

"Check." 

"Engines clear?"

"Mmhm." 

"How are we on fuel?"

"Full up, Cap." 

Din's too busy with his checklist to disparage the nickname. As he'd spoken about a few weeks prior, plans are in motion at last to touch down on an isolated little planet. A Mandalorian's version of a vacation -- room for all of you to stretch your legs, see stars that weren't trapped behind the glass of the _Crest's_ cockpit. 

His focus on this is endearing. You aren't sure if Grem understands that the three of you won't be in the ship for a few days. That doesn't stop Din from telling him all about it. It occurs to you that maybe _he_ is the one who needs a break. He gives nothing away, but you think you're beginning to figure him out. 

Last night, you'd overheard something. 

\-----

It's a rare night when Din doesn't join you in your cot. He insists that he needs to check the coordinates a final time, fiddle with the carbonite freeze chamber. You shrug and let him be. Time spent with him in your little room is something you always look forward to, but emphasis on _little_ room. It might be nice to stretch out on the cot for once, take up as much space as you can without kicking him. 

But you can't sleep. It's like your body has grown too used to being squished against his -- all the extra space now feels alien. Tossing and turning makes no difference to your comfort. You find yourself thinking again of that first night on the _Crest_. You'd been cold, unnerved by the unfamiliar sounds, unsure if you'd made the right decision in coming with the Mandalorian. 

As you had then, you resign yourself to a night of no rest. Maybe you can help Din with that freeze chamber leak, or at least keep him company. But when you turn to look, he's nowhere near it. _He would've started on it by now,_ you think. To your surprise, his voice is drifting down from the cockpit, hushed to a near-whisper. 

"... don't know what you mean." 

_Who is he talking to?_

"...telling you, Mando. All the jobs are…" 

Curious, you walk to the base of the ladder. Looking up, you can see the blue light of a holo-call shining. 

Din makes an aggravated sound, a growl that he must have known was too loud. Your heart is thumping in your chest. When he speaks again, it's even softer. 

"... _need_ this, Karga. The kid is..." 

You tilt an ear up, straining to hear. _What_ is happening? 

"Doing my best. I promise you. ...safe, Mando." 

The blue light vanishes, and you hear Din slump in the pilot's chair. You stay frozen in place for minutes, waiting for something else, but there's nothing. Biting your lip, you crawl back in your cot. You can't seem to stop your pulse from thudding, though there's no present danger. Anxiety washes over your body like a wave you can't swim through, ebbing and flowing. 

_Who was that? Are we in danger? Why did he sound so upset?_

So many questions you can't answer. You want to climb into the cockpit and _ask_ , but the fear that Din will be annoyed with you holds you back. He sounded so tense, _angry_ even. You don't want that turned on you. 

_I'll ask him tomorrow,_ you think. _Tomorrow._

You lie there with your eyes open until Grem stirs for the morning. He provides you with a sense of welcome normalcy. The kid tells you he wants out of his crib by patting his hands on the metal sides. It starts off gentle, but if he thinks he's being ignored, the noise will escalate into deafening _CLANGs_. You know from experience that no one could sleep through _that_. He goes silent seconds before you pop the top; those big ears don't miss a thing. You give the kid a squeeze, cradling him in one arm. "Morning, stinky." 

"Bweehbuh." 

"Yeah? Tell me more."

He continues to babble at you, saying things that only make sense to him. The curious part of you, your inner linguist, wonders if it's actually a language that you've never heard of. There are millions used across the galaxy, after all. You're only versed in a handful. Something intricate and complex could be disguised under those infantile squeaks and gurgles. 

So while Grem looks, acts, and talks like a baby, you try not to ever treat him like he doesn't know what's going on. Din certainly doesn't. With the two of you only knowing next to nothing about him, you have to assume he's more intelligent than he lets on. And besides, how many babies can float their crayons out of the highest storage crate using only their minds? 

"Morning," Din says as the two of you emerge into the upper deck. Grem toddles right over to his dad, hugging his boot. It's early enough that Din's still drinking his caf -- the cup is curled in his hand, steaming. Usually the only sign that he's had it is the smell of it in the air, or the taste of it on his lips when you sneak a quick kiss. It's the only vice that he seems to have, a necessity that makes it onto every supply list. Brand doesn't matter; it just has to be black and _strong_. 

"Morning," you repeat, dropping into the copilot's chair. Living on a ship, your indicator of _morning_ is the time blinking on the _Crest's_ dash, or on the small clock in your room. It's always a bit of a relief to see the sun (or suns) rise and fall, to have a real clue of time passing. If the clocks stopped working, you would have no idea how much time had passed until the drop on the next planet.

"... didn't sleep," Din is saying to you. 

"Sorry, what?" You blink at him, twisting your mouth in an apologetic frown. 

"I said, _'you didn't sleep.'_ You're sitting there like a droid with low power." His arms are folded, and he's leaning forward as if to further assess you. " _And_ you didn't feed the kid. What's wrong?" 

You look away, swallowing. Sometimes it's easy to forget that knowing every detail is Din's job -- that's why they call him the best in the parsec. Now doesn't feel like the right time to tell him what you heard. His own posture is rigid, defensive almost. You're no bounty hunter, but you're learning _his_ tells, even through the beskar. When you don't answer, his fingers start tapping on the control panel, an anxious habit. 

Maybe when you get to Cophrigin V, he'll ease up a little. For now, you tell him a half truth. 

"I couldn't sleep. I was...thinking about my first night on the ship." 

That throws him off your scent. "Why?" 

Shrugging, you swivel your chair into his. "So much has changed since then. I was just... reminiscing, I guess. It brought up some feelings." Not a lie, you assure yourself.

Your knee bumps his, a familiar gesture, and he bumps back before placing his hand on your thigh. "Sorry, pet. You could've come up here with me." His voice softens, and you hope you haven't made a mistake with prolonging this. 

_Could I have come up, though?_

Instead of voicing any of this, you shake your head. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"Swear?" His helmet tilts, and you know it's his eyes looking into yours for an answer. 

"Swear." _I'll ask about it when we touch down._

"Let me make you some caf. You look like you got trampled by a three-legged tauntaun," he says, rising out of his chair. With his back to you, he raises his helmet and finishes the last of his own cup in one quick swallow. "Then we'll get the brat some breakfast." 

His unfiltered voice hits your ears before he's sliding the helmet back down. You watch him wander into the storage room to look for what he needs to make you a cup of the vile stuff. 

"Din, your caf is nasty." 

"Says the woman who violates my caf with two dozen sugar packs any time I let her drink it," he retorts from storage. 

"Because it's _nasty_." 

"You don't say that when you taste it on my mouth." 

He's back in the cockpit, standing in front of you with a cup in one hand and the caf in the other. It occurs to you how...how _domestic_ the two of you are being right now. After all those years of vowing to never settle, never marry, here you are playing out those fantasies. And you've never even seen his face. 

"Close your eyes, _sarad_ ," he murmurs. 

When you get that precious surprise of his lips, lingering just a hint longer than they need to in front of Grem, he does taste like the bitterness of caf. But underneath, there's a sweetness that can only be described as _Din_. 

\----- 

Cophrigin V. The _Crest_ shakes as you break through its atmosphere, and your grip on Grem tightens. He and Din are naturals at this, not reacting at all as the hull creaks and groans under the pressure of landing. You aren't as nervous as you were for your first couple of planets, but you still need something to hold onto. 

Once the worst of the turbulence stops, you open your eyes to see what the planet has to offer. Grassy plains roll out for miles, interrupted only by thick forests that slope up into mountain ranges. A herd of animals runs below the _Crest_ , but you’re still too far up to make out what they could be. A pang goes through your chest, seeing all the open land. It reminds you too much of home. 

_Home is here_ , you remind yourself. Wherever Din and Grem are. Still, there were things on Lah’mu that you couldn’t help missing. You wonder if you’ll ever go back. 

Din parks the _Crest_ on the treeline, close enough to hide the ship from overhead view. You can’t fault him for still being cautious. Asking him to be reckless is like asking you to have no interest in language, or for Grem to stop eating frogs. Some habits are just ingrained.

“This is it,” Din flips some switches on the control panel as the turbines wind down, then become quiet. 

“C’mon, kid,” you give Grem a little jostle; he’s dozing off. 

“Stick him in his pod -- he can float alongside if he’s tired.” Din gets up with a slow stretch. “Walk with me, petal. It’s what we came here for.” 

It’s so strange to leave the ship _with_ him. Aside from running dry of rations in Garel, someone always stays with the ship, end of story. And if the _Crest_ is parked, it’s either for supplies, fuel, or a bounty. You’ve never left because you could, to explore the planet. There’s something freeing about standing at the foot of her ramp, next to your Mandalorian. Knowing that there's nothing pressing you have to do. Not for the next few rotations, at least. Grem’s crib floats at waist height, open but oblivious in sleep. 

“See anything?” you ask Din. You know he’s not taking in the views of the planet as you are. In fact, you’d bet all your credits that his visor is set to scan for life-forms. He's picking them out as far as the scanner will go. You shoot a smile at his helmet, even though he isn’t focusing on you at all. _Soft guy inside the ship, warrior outside of it_. Maybe you can convince him to ease up a little while you’re here. 

“Nothing that’ll bother us.” 

“So why not leave the rifle?” you tease, running a hand over the stock of the well-polished weapon. You would never admit this to him, but it’s incredibly hot to watch him handle it. There’s something about the easy way he knows a weapon that makes you shiver. You swear he can disassemble and reassemble his blaster in less than a minute.

“Mm...no. The rifle stays.” 

“Alright, alright.” Relenting, you trail your fingers down the barrel before reaching for his hand. Such a small action that you’ve done hundreds of times, but never outside the _Crest_. You’re as thrilled as a teenager when he curls his fingers around yours, as if there’s nothing unusual about this. “Show me what all the fuss is about this planet.” 

\-----

The big deal is that after a few hours there, you don’t want to leave. Cophrigin V feels like a sanctuary that exists for you and your little clan alone. When you or Din aren’t speaking, the only sounds are the rustling of leaves from the forest, the calls of birds. You can’t remember the last time it was so...quiet. It feels like you’re the only people in the entire galaxy. 

Grem starts stirring around noon, and Din sets the kid on his broad shoulders. The little guy’s eyes are everywhere, watching anything that moves. _He really did need to get out of that ship_. That, or he wants to eat something alive. Luckily, there don’t seem to be any small lizards or amphibians out here to sate his more unusual tastes. 

“Back to the ship for lunch?” you ask, knowing there will be an inevitable tantrum if Grem isn’t fed. 

“No need.” Din puts an arm out, stopping you from walking forward. “Look.” 

About a hundred yards to your left, something is moving through the trees. _Several_ somethings. Their green skin makes them hard to see, but now that you’re looking, you can spot about half a dozen creatures. They have thick, square-ish bodies that end in a short tail, and when one looks up from grazing, you can see fish-like whiskers on its eyeless face. Another lets out a bleat, sniffing the air. 

“Stay quiet,” Din cautions, “and get low.” He bends to hand Grem to you and unholsters his blaster, stalking forward like a natural predator. Holding Grem close, you crouch in the dirt, watching as Din moves in on the herd. Within seconds, he’s disappeared in the forest. You can’t believe it -- wearing _that_ much beskar, and you can’t see him at all. Your heart is pounding, and not because you’re worried about him out there. There’s something so _thrilling_ about this. Watching, waiting for him to do what he's best at -- _hunt_. 

Everything is quiet. It seems like even the wind has stopped; all you can hear is Grem’s breathing. He stares at the spot where his _buir_ vanished into the trees. 

The blaster shot rings out, ear-shattering though you were bracing for it, obliterating the peace. It sends the herd of animals thundering off, their hooves shaking the ground under your feet. You gasp as one of them breaks through the treeline, lowing and snorting, missing you by around ten feet. 

More silence as the herd disperses. Then, reappearing like an apparition through fog, you spot him. One of the slain creatures is slung across his shoulders, where Grem had been minutes before. As Din walks closer, you can see streaks of its silvery-green blood dripping from his beskar. Casual as anything, he takes his time getting back. Not like he’d just shot an animal with plans to strip and gut it to feed both you and his son in a way that was alarmingly sexy. 

“No poison sacs, no fangs,” he lists, dangling it by its hind legs. “No spurs. Looks like lunch to me.” Din unsheathes the dagger from his belt, the blade wicked sharp and as long as your forearm. “Hungry?” 

_Yes,_ you think, _but not in the way you’re describing_. 

You start a fire within sight of the _Crest_ , while Din hacks away at the skin and muscle of his kill. As much as you try to keep Grem close to you, he’s fascinated with what Din’s doing. Granted, it _is_ making a mess, and messes are the kid’s specialty. Din is soaked in the creature’s blood from head to toe, and it forms a radius around his boots. The high, coppery smell fills your nose with every breath, inescapable.

Pieces of the herd animal are scattered around your temporary site. The inedible ones get tossed away, the valuable ones stay in a pile. It wasn’t a huge animal, knee height if you had to guess, but it’ll provide all of you with a satisfying meal and then some. 

Din keeps pausing to look over at you, and when he speaks next, you find out why. “This doesn’t bother you?” He holds the dagger in one hand, one flank of the creature in the other. 

_Ohhh_. He’s worried you’re going to lose your lunch -- well, your breakfast -- at the sight of this animal cut up like a puzzle. 

“You’re forgetting; I grew up on a farm. Sometimes _this_ happens on farms, you know.” And it had -- as unsavory as it was at times. Your family had kept livestock for food, but there were some you couldn’t bear to slaughter. Some that you’d named, grown to love. Your mother said it made you soft hearted. But that didn’t mean that seeing it happen to a random animal was going to make you sick. 

He considers this for a moment. “I didn’t forget -- you didn’t say.” 

“Oh,” is all you can think of to reply. Had you really not told him about it? Day-to-day conversation didn’t require you to touch on each other’s pasts. Maybe it was time to change that. 

“I’ve heard of something that people do to get to know one another,” Din says casually, not looking up from his work. 

“Yeah?” you smile, pretty sure you know what he’s about to say. 

“Mhm."

“Are you asking me on a date?” 

“I’m...inviting you. There’ll be food.” He gestures with the flank. 

“You absolute charmer.” Gods, you wouldn’t trade him for anything. “I’ll be there.” 

\------ 

Sunset fades into dusk. 

The air has taken on a cool edge, and insects sing from beyond where you can see. Stars are popping out one by one as the sky turns shades of purple and sapphire. Blankets taken from the ship are spread out to sit on. You and Grem are propped on your elbows, watching a beetle skitter over the grass. Not content to observe, the kid pops the poor thing into his mouth with an off-putting crunch. 

“Kid. You don’t know where that bug’s been,” you admonish. 

He’s not listening -- his big eyes are already searching for another. 

Din's kill has long been stored away in the _Crest's_ cryocontainer -- the parts you didn't eat, anyway. You'd helped him roast it on the open fire, on sticks that had been whittled clean of their bark. There was something liberating about it -- doing things the old-fashioned way. That, and it was delicious. You haven't had meat, let alone _food_ , this fresh since you lived with your parents. Grem had actually _whined_ when you made him stop eating. The kid had a point; after months of packaged MREs, this was an outright delicacy. So good, in fact, that the three of you had made both lunch and dinner out of it. 

Though it’s only been minutes, soon the only light comes from the fire and the stars. _Why isn’t Din back yet?_ Your stomach drops with worry. Everything about this planet that you’ve seen so far has assured you of its tranquility, yet the dark makes even the trees look suspicious. Din had gone to the ship, saying only that he’d be right back. Possibilities as to what _that_ could mean, all the things he isn’t saying, fill the empty space he’s left behind. You still haven’t talked about what you overheard. Today has felt too nice to spoil, the air too pure to sour with something that might cause an argument. 

“Sky is clear tonight.” 

“Din _fucking_ Djarin --!” 

He’s barely visible as a reflection of fire off of beskar, standing on the perimeter of your campsite. You roll over on your back, both hands clutching Grem. You had no weapons out here, no _protection_. If that had been anyone but him, all you could have done to protect the child would be to curl around him, become a shell. 

“Language, _sarad_ ,” Din says smoothly. As if he hadn’t scared the Force out of you. You know he’s a quiet man, but would a simple _‘I’m over here’_ kill him? _Before_ he was two feet away? At this point, it’s hard to believe he doesn’t get a kick out of it. “Kid’s got big ears.” 

“I know what he’s got. And what _you’re_ going to get if you keep doing that to me,” you threaten, getting to your feet. Grem looks at you, then to his _buir_ , giggling. Glad _he’s_ amused.

Din puts his hands up, feigning surrender. “Better get in the pod, _ad’ika_. She looks serious.” 

You warm to hear the word for _little one_ come from his mouth. Before it’s always been _kid_ , or _the child_. Sometimes _buddy_ on a good day. Somehow, _ad’ika_ feels right for Grem, especially when Din is the one saying it. 

“I am,” you insist, though the grin creeping over your face is giving you away. You hook a finger through Din’s belt, tugging it. He lets you, and your imagination fills in the look he’s shooting you through the helmet. Eyebrow raised, maybe, his own mouth smirking. 

_In front of the kid?_ He’s probably thinking.

You shrug. _Maybe. So what?_

_Flirt._ He tugs on your own belt, a simple woven thing that isn’t made for holsters or ammo. 

Your hip nudges into his, subtle but with meaning. “It’s getting so late that I was imagining anything could be out here.” Which translates to, _Let’s put Grem to bed; I want to be alone with you._

Luckily, Din isn’t an idiot. “Too dark for young ones to be out.” 

As if he knows you’re about to say _the B word,_ Grem’s little forehead wrinkles into a frown. 

“Hey, none of that,” you soothe him as his lip wobbles. “There’s bedtime here like there’s bedtime on the ship.” 

Din watches as you spout more reassuring nonsense to his angry green foundling. You can understand why the little guy doesn’t want to go back in his pod, then to the ship, to be locked up for the night. You hated early bedtimes too, as a kid. Your parents would make you go to your room when the sun set. Mornings started when it was rising. 

Elias would get up with you, too, help you milk the goats and herd the yip-tips. There was a little path that connected your houses -- he met you there almost every day. You always told him he was crazy, getting up that early when he didn't need to. He always shrugged and said he thought it was fun.

_Where did that come from?_ Shaking your head, you urge the memory away. You’re thinking too much about things that don’t matter anymore. 

“Come on, you two.” Din’s hand is on your shoulder. “I’ll lead the way.” 

\----

“Are you sure he’ll be okay in there alone?” 

“Yes, Miona. I promise.” 

“But what if he --” 

“He’s in his crib. In your room. The door is locked.” 

“But --” 

“ _And_ ,” Din continues, cutting you off, “Ground security protocol is on. I changed the passcode to the _control panel_. He’s under lock and key.” 

Sighing, you nod and relent. You know that Din would never take an unnecessary risk when it came to Grem. But something in your chest _aches_ when you realize that leaving the ship without the kid is the furthest you’ve been from him in a while. Wherever you go, he goes. 

A hand squeezes yours in the dark. 

“Sweetheart. Relax.” 

_Sweetheart_. Another name to add to your collection, spoken so gently in his rough voice. It’s new enough that it still makes you blush, and he seems to know there’s a fragility surrounding it. Then again, you’re calling him _cyar’ika_ with the same levels of tenderness. He still hasn’t told you outright if he knows the meaning of the word, but him calling you sweetheart is too coincidental. 

“Weren’t we going to... do something?” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unnerved that you can’t see him in the pitch blackness. With the fire extinguished, you can't see your hand in front of your face. 

“Hmmm…” The sound is a low rumble in his chest, considering, making you wait. You can _feel_ him move closer. “I think we were. Remind me.” 

The phrase _get to know you better_ is floating on the surface of your mind like a leaf on the water, but all your body wants is to press into his. Without the tight confines of the _Crest_ , you feel more daring than usual. 

You reach for him, recognizing the shapes that he's made of by touch alone. Fingertips meet the cool incline of his chest plate, reaching up to play with the place where his cloak meets his neck. 

"You said something about a date." 

"I did," he agrees, always willing to play along with your games. His hands are on your upper arms, running circles into your exposed skin. "But it might have to wait." 

"Why?" You wonder if he can see you now, licking your lips as you touch him, want him. The helmet has so many settings -- thermal, night vision, zoom. Are you displayed in all greens, eyes bright like an animal's? 

"I want to taste you again," he whispers, and his voice is his _own_ , the helmet gone with a _thud_ on the grass at your feet. You draw in a ragged breath -- the night is black, but you hadn't expected him to be so bold. 

"Din, are you -- sure?" Even you feel a little anxious without the blindfold on hand. You could _ruin_ his way of life by catching a glimpse of him. 

"Sweetheart." That word again. Din's breath on your cheek, his nose bumping your lips as he tries to kiss you. "I trust you. And you respect _me_. So, yes." 

It was that simple. And you love him. 

Oh, _Maker_ , you love him. The thought swells and rises, fills and fills your chest like helium and starlight and song. Your lips find one another at last, unaware of the epiphany your mind is having, moving on instinct. You can't worry about whether you should tell him because you can't think at all. 

He makes such a _happy_ sound to have your mouth on his, a little sigh like he's been waiting all day for this moment. Always a quiet man otherwise; every sound he makes in moments like this are worth twice the pleasure. Good thing you know which boxes to tick. 

Tilting your head to deepen the kiss, you tangle one hand in his hair and _grab_ , not yanking, but enough for him to feel it. Din moans between your parted lips, helpless to the sensation. 

" _Sarad_ \--" 

"Yes?" You pull back enough to ask. 

"L-like that." 

One of his arms pulls you tight around the waist, into his body. Between all the beskar, you can feel his hardening cock. 

He doesn't seem to want to stop kissing you, though. His mouth nudges into yours, harder, urgent, nose brushing your cheek. Din's breath is coming hot and fast on your neck between every kiss, and it's fucking _wrecking_ you. You're too wet, too fast with how pent up he's acting. Your body whines for more friction, but feeling his mouth slide against yours is too intoxicating to stop. 

"Din," you laugh breathlessly against him. "What --" another kiss, and another -- "do you want?" 

That makes him pause for a moment, and you let your free hand run to his throat, feeling his pulse. It's galloping against your fingers, and you imagine his pupils -- what color are his eyes? -- blown wide, looking at you between kisses. 

You hear him swallow. "Kiss me. _More_. Pull my -- my hair. Just, I need -- I want you --" 

There was no need for him to finish the sentence. You tug his arm, urging him to the ground. You'd give him everything he was asking for, right there in the fucking grass. There's a brief interlude where the _shuff_ of his blaster being taken from its holster and the rifle being slung off his shoulders assures you that no one will be accidentally shot or disintegrated. 

When you find him, on your knees in the dewy grass, he's more than ready. His mouth collides with yours on a desperate groan, and you feel his tongue explore your lower lip before _sucking,_ hard. You shudder into him, lowering yourself on top of Din's armor-clad body as he continues his work. 

"Miona," he pants. "Love your mouth. S-so --" he gasps as your hands find roots in his hair once more -- "pretty." 

He's never asked you to pull his hair -- he seemed reluctant to say he wanted it. From your experience, this could mean that there's a strong sexual connection that he hasn't told you about -- or been aware of -- until now. And you were _all about_ it. 

Pushing your tongue deep into his mouth, you take both fistfuls of his silky, soft hair and _tug_. This time there's no consideration or gentleness; you're grabbing as tight as you can, with as much force as you can. 

"Mmm, oh, fuck, --" He pulls away, gasping. 

Your grip loosens immediately. "I'm sorry -- was it too --?" 

Din laughs once, a shy sound. "Ah, _no_. But sweetheart -- can you -- can you ride me? Want inside you." 

_Yes yes yes finally,_ your body sings out. 

In answer, you fumble for the snap of his pants, ripping them open with one strong jerk. There’s no point in removing anything else -- you need him inside you, and _now_. Before you can get to it, he's pulling his cock free -- an open invitation to sit on it. You really do whine then, pushing his hand away and replacing it with your own.

"Eager girl," he growls, his hands circling your waist. 

"I wouldn't point fingers right now, Din 'Ride Me' Djarin," you huff, throwing your panties off in the grass somewhere. 

" _Mouthy_ girl." 

“You know it.” 

No point in drawing it out. He’s practically gasping for it, aching to come inside you. You part your folds and slide onto his solid cock easily, relishing the feel of him nestled deep in your center. You’re already sloppy down there, downright _oozing_ around his shaft. 

“So -- fuckin’ _wet_ already,” he slurs, digging gloved fingers into your hips. 

“Your fault,” you breathe, placing one hand on the ground to steady yourself and the other back in his hair. Hips grinding his cock in a steady rhythm, you start saying things you’d never meant to. “Walking around...looking hot. Hunting for -- for us.” Thank _someone_ that he can’t see your face. Bad enough that you’re stumbling through this half-baked confession. “Moaning like that when I -- _ah!_ \-- kiss you.” 

It seems that you’re having a similar effect on him. Din matches your every thrust, hitting something _deep_ in your core. You whimper, pleasure bordering on pain, as he lifts from the grass to get the right angle. 

“Not going to last,” you hear his breath hitch as you twist a handful of his hair, “not going to last like this --” 

You don’t care. You want him to come for you here, _now_ , in the black night of this foreign planet. There’s time, a ribbon of it stretched out in front of you, for tenderness and love-making. If he wants, you’ll come back tomorrow and do it that way. But for now, you’re craving his release almost as badly as he is. 

“Then don’t,” you say. “Come inside me, _cyar’ika_. Give me every -- every kriffing drop.” 

Stars, the sound he makes is _animal_. “Then fuck me _harder_ \-- God, I can feel it, Miona -- _fuck_ \--”

“Din --” You’re snapping your hips into him, impaling your cunt on his cock over and _over_. Air scrapes your lungs and you’re getting dizzy, but you’re determined not to stop. “Are you gonna come for me?” 

“Yes,” comes his immediate gasp. “ _Yes,_ sweetheart, like that -- oh, fuck, like _that_ \--” he reaches urgently for your hand, and you take it, knowing his tells. “Miona, I’m coming, I’m _coming, oh -- oh --_!” 

He _thrusts_ inside you, so deep that you squeak at the feeling. Heat is spreading through your pussy as he shudders through his orgasm, stammering swears and praise. You can already feel yourself leaking come, and he hasn’t even stopped. It’s only when he drops your hand and lets out a long, weary sigh that you peel yourself off of him. Din’s ejaculate spills out of you, dripping down your thighs in a warm mess. Lying in the grass beside him, it takes several minutes to catch your breath. 

“ _Sarad_ ,” he says after a while, sounding hoarse. 

“Yeah?” 

He clears his throat. “I -- you were -- that was incredible.” 

You chuckle, smiling into his pauldron. “ _You_ were pretty incredible yourself.”

“Flatterer. Tonight was all you.” Din rolls over to kiss you, his lips landing on your forehead. There’s no way to tell if that’s what he intended in the dark, but it’s nice anyway. 

“I wouldn’t have had the energy to do all that if you hadn’t gotten me worked up,” you admit, glad that he still has the helmet off. His thermal vision setting definitely would have picked up on your blush. “Come on. I want to shower before I lose the will to move.” 

“Good plan,” he agrees. 

After some fumbling for lost items, (weapons and underwear) you follow him back to the _Crest_. Clinging to his arm, you can’t stop thinking about what occurred to you when he first kissed you. _Love_. You’d meant it, and remembering the feeling makes it swell again inside you now. There's a dozen reasons to believe that what you’re feeling is real. 

But should you tell him? Would he feel the same, or is defining you under the category of _love_ taking it too far in his mind? 

You reach the ramp of the ship, and it makes you remember what you still haven’t asked about. The holo-call, the fear in his voice, the way he keeps going back to the ship alone. Kriff -- that puts a damper on your mood. 

_Ask him,_ you think, watching Din strip himself of his soiled clothes and armor in the tiny washroom. _Get the worst of it out of the way. As for how you feel...I guess you’ll figure that out after._

If only it were that easy. 

\------

There must be something in the air of this planet. Even after sex, a hot shower, and no rest the night before, you're not tired in the slightest. It looks like another sleepless night, but with Din beside you, it’s hard to mind. After checking on Grem and finding him right where you left him, you both decide it's safe to leave the ship once more. You make sure to catch the time before you do; it's just past midnight.

Din gets the fire going again. Settled with your head in his lap, the blistering heat of it makes you feel like only your face is being subjected to a brutal desert wind. You watch the flames dance and crackle on the reflection of his helmet. Finally, you’re getting the alone time to learn more about each other without Grem -- or your own sexual urges -- in the way. 

“Tell me more about Lah’mu,” Din says. 

Kriff -- this is exactly what you've been trying to avoid. When he’d asked to know more about you, you thought that he’d start off with things like ‘What’s your favorite color?’ or ‘Which language did you learn first?’. But being Din, he has to jump straight for something close to the heart. You swallow, looking off at a point past the fire. 

“Not much more to tell. There are… beaches with black sand. It rains a lot, but the sunny days are perfect. Most of the people there are farmers. The planet has volcanoes, so the soil is really fertile. Crops will grow for you even if you’ve never watered a plant in your life.” You smile, remembering that your dad used to say that all the time. 

“Sounds nice.” 

“But it’s...isolated. Far from any hyperspace lane. More and more people have come since the Clone Wars, but I still only knew a handful of families.” That was how your parents and _their_ parents had gotten there, seeking refuge. As much as it divided, the Clone Wars had brought some together. 

He nods, listening to everything carefully. “Do you miss it?” 

The raw feeling at the back of your throat provides your answer before you speak it aloud. “I...yes. Of _course_. I haven’t been there in years.” You sit up, aware of how dangerously close you are to crying over this surge of homesickness. A deep breath calms you down enough to press through what you’re trying to say. 

“Why not?” he asks, helmet tilted toward you. 

The reason has been stewing inside you for years, festering like an infection. You’ve told no one, instead letting it seep deeper and deeper into the very fabric of who you are until some days it feels like you need to _scream_. Being on the _Crest_ , among friends, has made it easier, but it’s never really gone. And sometimes, that feels worse than being alone with it. The less you acknowledge it, the worse it feels when you _do_. 

It was over two years ago now -- closer to three at this point. You and Elias had graduated, he in mechanical engineering and you in xenolinguistics. The two of you had been so thrilled to board the same ship. You both had assignments available right away where you could still be close to one another. You were headed to Takodana, and he would stay for a day or two before taking the next ship out with a repairs crew headed to Castilon. You can still remember his mother’s face on the holocall, her thanking you for always looking out for him. 

The drop into hyperspace had been fine, though you were nervous. It was one of the only times you’d ever been on a ship in your life. Elias assured you that the Coruscant University crew wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Thinking back, you’re certain that his words must have been a curse. A few hours in, the alarm started wailing. One of the crewmembers looked panicked, whispering something to the pilot. No one would tell you what was going on. 

As it turns out, this was because your ship was being boarded, and there was nothing the crew could do about it. An ear-splitting _scrape_ rang out as the invading ship attached to the small Coruscant flight vessel, sealing their ramps with a pressure lock. They were pirates, and they weren’t interested in your tears. 

Each crewmember carried a blaster, so the outlaws had shot them on sight. One of the three pirates was shot down by the crew in the struggle. They had wanted to kill Elias, too. When he told them that he was a gifted engineer and a half-decent pilot, they reconsidered. 

**[Note: this marks the beginning of the section that necessitates a content warning. If you wish to skip this segment, please proceed to the next bolded statement.**

“Let us have our way with the girl, and we’ll take you along,” one said. You remember. “Might even keep her around.” Like you were an entertaining animal, or a lucky trinket. 

You’d looked at one another, and decades of memories flashed between you. You’d shaken your head at him, frantic, hoping he knew that you wanted him to live more than you wanted to keep your dignity. _I’m not worth dying for!_ You wanted to scream. When he looked away, you knew that he wasn’t listening. You watched in horror as he spat at their feet. 

“Have it your way.” The pirate had shrugged, _shrugged,_ before firing up the blaster and unloading it into your best friend. Elias had looked at you, and you watched the light leave his eyes. Blue like yours, the very pair that made everyone who met you ask if you were siblings. 

This is where your memory falters. You know that Elias had slumped to the floor. You know that the pirates had made a joke about it. You know that the pair of them, a human and a Zygerrian, were all over you -- too many hands, too close. If you struggled, they bore down harder. If you cried, they mocked you. There’s pain and sweat and you began to float above it all, unable to believe that it was happening. Elias and the crew were still _there_. 

**[Note: this marks the end of the content warning. There will be a summary in the chapter notes if you would like to read.]**

You felt like a shell; used up and purposeless. When they’d finally had their fill, one went below deck to sleep. The other chained you to the co-pilot’s chair while he plugged in new coordinates. He’s the Zygerrian, and quite open about telling you how much you’ll make on the slave market. He was wearing his blaster on his hip. The further you flew, the more you listened to his plans, the more you came alive. Your life might have been ruined, but you couldn’t do this. Even if it got you killed. 

You attacked him -- raking your fingernails over his face as he was spouting something about how submissive you were. He’d _roared_ , calling you every name you’d heard of and more. Blood spouted from scratches over his eye and nose, giving you precious time. He yanked your wrist backward with a _crunch_ , but you didn’t stop. You shot your arm down, yanking his blaster away. The Zygerrian yelled for his companion while you squeezed the trigger, not knowing how the thing worked. The safety was on. 

By the time you’d realized that, the other man had come up the stairs, his own blaster at the ready. Once you recognized that your weapon was live, you fired blindly, shots ricocheting off of every curve the cockpit had. You were going to get off of this ship or die trying -- even if it meant taking the lives of these pirates. Most of your fire missed by a long shot, but you clipped the human on the shoulder and he fell to his knees. Furious, the Zygerrian had tried to wrestle the weapon away from you. 

Perhaps he thought that you wouldn’t shoot to kill. He’d been wrong. You fired a round into his chest, point blank. You can still recall how his eyes widened, just slightly. He had fallen at your feet, crumpling like paper. You had felt nothing. The only thought in your mind was dealing with the next one. When his pulse stops, the electromagnetic charge on your handcuff releases. You got to your feet. 

The ship dropped out of hyperspace right as the human struggled toward you, clutching his shoulder. With no one at the controls, the whole vessel _leaned_ , and both of you struggled to keep your balance. 

“Listen. Girl,” he started. “We don’t -- we don’t have to fight.” 

Keeping one hand on the yokes, desperately trying to keep the ship out of a nosedive, you point the gun at him. But the ship still leaned dangerously, tilting too close to a planet. Alarms went off all over the control panel -- heat warnings, pressure warnings. You had no idea how to start the landing process, how to enter the atmosphere. 

“If you don’t let me land this ship, we’re both going to die,” said the man. His tone was full of fear, and you were glad for it. 

You only looked at him, keeping the blaster where it was. The ship continued to drop, bursting through the atmosphere in a fiery ball. If you had looked through the cockpit’s window, Cantonica’s deserts would have been coming into sight -- and fast. _So be it_. 

When you crash, the impact threw you against the control panel so hard that you blacked out in an instant. You had no clue how long it took you to wake up -- only that when you did, the other man was gone.  
\-----

“I buried him there,” you say, keeping all traces of emotion out of your voice. “In the sand on Cantonica. If I’d waited any longer, he’d have started…” you trail off, not wanting to say it, but Din understands. He’s taken you back into his lap, squeezing your hand whenever your voice wavers. 

“The man took all of my credits. Everything of value. I had to start from the bottom.” You stare into the fire, not seeing anything. There had only been two holo-calls to home since you’d been stranded on Cantonica. One to Elias’ family, and one to your own. They’d been... _torturous_ wasn't a big enough word to explain. Elias was dead, and you couldn’t bring his body home. You couldn’t even bring _yourself_ home. 

“I’m flying you back,” Din says when you fall quiet. “Give me the coordinates.” 

Something in your chest squeezes. For the first time since you started talking about this, tears prick the corners of your eyes. “Din -- I -- _thank you_.” You twist in his arms to hug him, and he lets you, tucking your head under his. “I just -- don’t know if I’m ready.” 

“When you are,” he says simply, squeezing you back, “we go. No questions asked. No matter what’s going on.” 

“ _Thank_ you,” you say again, glad he can’t see the tears spilling over now. “I love --” You stop yourself on the brink of saying it. “I love that you would do that for me.” You breathe in a few steadying breaths, needing them to stop yourself from losing it. He says nothing, just soothes a hand down your back, waiting. 

When you finally pull away, your tears have almost dried. He looks at you and you give him a watery smile back, trying to lighten the mood. “Now I think you owe me a story about _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miona caught feelings. :O Another long long chapter for you guys! Enjoy. Let me know what you thought! I want Din 'Ride Me' Djarin on a cross-stitch or a tattoo, I can't decide between them. 
> 
> Also, I had someone ask me how you pronounce Miona's name. I've always thought of it as MY-OH-nuh, but if you've already been pronouncing it in your head a certain way, that's cool too. :) And I pronounce Elias El-EYE-ess.
> 
> See you next chapter! Have a nice holiday weekend. Stay safe and stay well.  
> Love, WickedScribbles
> 
> **Here is the summary for what went on in the content warning section, in case you didn't want to read it in detail. The pirates agree to leave Elias alive, as long as they can have their way with Miona freely. Elias does not agree to this -- they shoot him. With him out of the way, they do as they said they would with Miona.**
> 
> Mando'a - mandowords dot tumblr dot com
> 
> sarad - flower, blossom  
> buir - father, mother  
> ad'ika - little one, son, daughter  
> cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart


	10. The Conflict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers! Editing in a little note here to say that the next chapter may be taking a little longer than usual to come out. You may notice that I usually post on Saturday or Sunday, but that may not be the case for a while. It might take me a few days longer. It's been a little stressful to churn out chapters at the rate that I have been. It's also been challenging and rewarding as a writer, but stress is starting to get to me. On top of that, I'm experiencing some health issues that have required me to slow down and rest as much as I can. Nothing terrible, but I'm trying to figure out what's wrong with me, and I need to take it easy in order to do so. 
> 
> While I'm here, just let me say THANK YOU to everyone who has viewed, left kudos, bookmarked, and commented! It means so much. I meant for this story to be a one-shot, but look how far it's come. And I have so much more planned! I hope that you will continue to stick around and continue to enjoy future chapters. 
> 
> P.S -- I have another Star Wars project in mind. It might be short, it might not be. I never know where the characters will take me. This will be an Obi-Wan/Jedisona fic set in the time of the Clone Wars! If you're interested, I plan to be pecking away at that in between writing Star in the Dust chapters. I'm too thirsty for Obi-Wan now, I can't NOT write my own. Heh. 
> 
> Anyway, just wanted to let you know, in case you come for a weekend update and don't find one. Thanks again for reading!

“What do you want to know?” 

It’s hard to resist the urge to blurt out, _everything. Tell me everything about you_. You want all the blanks filled in on this mysterious man. There's so much that you've had to figure out on your own. Assumptions have become truths only through careful scrutiny. Beskar isn't the only armor he wears. Even as you've watched him become comfortable around you, there’s a feeling that some parts of him are still kept under wraps. 

You decide it's easiest to start with the basics. 

“You asked me about Lah’mu. Where did you grow up?” You glance over to gauge his reaction, watching for any change in posture or body language. There’s nothing; he’s gone still. The shimmer of fire on armor gives the impression of movement, but you know better. You’ve done so much watching, trying to figure this Mandalorian out. First out of curiosity, then admiration. 

Something about Din’s stillness, his silence, makes you want to take the question back. When was the last time he’d told someone about his past? Had he _ever_? 

“I grew up with the Tribe. That meant going wherever they took me.” 

That's a more cryptic response than you're used to, which is saying something. He moves at last, only to tap his fingers against the ground. The helmet looks off to a point beyond the fire, as you had earlier. It seems that you've put Din out of his comfort zone. 

"Is this a sore subject?" you venture. "We don't have to talk about it. We don't _have_ to talk about anything." 

He pauses for a moment, then sighs as if he's been holding his breath. "No. After what you told me, _sarad_ \--" 

"I was joking, Din, you don't actually _owe_ me anything --" 

"But I want to." His voice is quiet, earnest through the modulator. "It's just -- difficult." 

You put your hand over his own, forcing it to still. "I'm not going anywhere." _Tonight or ever._

Leaning against his shoulder pauldron, you settle in and let him take the time he needs. After all, he'd done the same for you. By the light of the fire, he tells you the tale of a little boy on a planet at war. 

_He doesn't know where he was born -- only that it had been on the planet he and his parents had fled. The planet they'd gone to for refuge is now under attack by Separatists. There are droids and blaster fire everywhere. Screams. He clings to his father as they try and find somewhere to hide._

_His parents place him in an abandoned cellar and promise to come back. There's not enough room for them to hide, too. The last thing the boy sees are his parent's faces, streaked with tears and dirt, before the door shuts. He waits for what feels like hours. There are sounds overhead so loud, explosions, that make him fear he'll be buried in the earth._

Din's hands clench and unclench into fists, and he leans forward. 

"Do you want to stop?" you ask quietly. 

A shake of the head, slow. "It's -- fine." 

Somehow you doubt it. But it's his decision to make, and after a few seconds, he continues. 

_The cellar door opens, letting in blinding light after so long in darkness. The boy freezes in fear, thinking the worst -- droids. But a man looks in, covered head to toe in armor. This armor is like nothing the boy has ever seen; foreign and powerful and intimidating. The pair look at each other for a long moment. Then the stranger stretches out a hand, beckoning._

_"Come along, little one."_

_But he's not sure. Where are his parents?_

_"Come along." Said with more intent now._

_There's no other choice. The fighting is still raging outside. He knows that he can either stay here in the cellar and actually be found by a droid, or go with the man. He reaches out and takes the gloved hand offered to him._

_"Good lad."_

_That hand pulls him up, strong and sure. Within moments, the boy is in the man's grip. He balances on the man's hip, like when he's with his parents and they need to walk long distances. A laser shot rings out, and it barely misses them. The man curses._

_"We're leaving,_ ad," _the man tells him._

_"Wait," the boy says._ My parents. I have to find my parents. 

_But the man isn't listening. With a roar that jolts them upward, the man's jetpack comes to life. Mere seconds go by before the people on the planet look like specks. The boy tries to search for his parents among them. Before long, he can't make out anything at all._

"So they -- he just _took_ you?" You're struggling to keep your tone level, but it isn't working. "Your parents could have still been there! They could still be out there now!" 

"Don't worry," Din says. His tone is as black as the night around you. "They assured me that my parents were dead not long after. That no one could have survived." 

You don't know what to say. It’s hard to imagine the man beside you as a child. Yet you can perfectly picture the terrified boy, torn from his family and everything he’d known. How did he get from there to now? You can’t imagine what it must have been like. Though you’d both known war and tragedy, it had started for Din before he’d had a chance to know life without it.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally. The words aren’t big enough, but they’re all you have to offer. Maker, you wish now more than ever that you could see the look on his face. Surely he can’t close off his expressions, too, after a lifetime under the helmet. 

“It’s the past.” Dismissive words from a soft-spoken man, and you wouldn’t expect much else. Still, it hurts you to hear him put the matter aside so simply. “I had a good life, as a foundling.” 

“Really?” 

“Better than a lot of war orphans got.” 

He describes how the boy grew into his new culture. They’d given him a helmet to wear and he’d _hated_ it -- ironic, you think. Even Din laughs a little as he tells you. The only thing that kept him from taking it off were the threats to send him away to the nearby orphanages. At least wherever the Tribe was moving next (and they often hopped from planet to planet, avoiding persecution) he got his own bed and warm meals. 

But staying with the Tribe also meant rising with the planet’s sun and not sleeping until long after it had set. There were lessons like what most children received, yes. And after those, they were educated in the Way of the Mandalore. But that only accounted for a small part of the day. Mainly it was training; blasters, knives, archery, stealth. They put a gun in his hand at the age of ten. Seven days a week -- they didn’t even take time off for Life Day. 

You can’t help the way your eyes widen at how Din tells you that he’s been handling a blaster for, oh, _decades_. That he’s been training to be the ideal soldier for the majority of his life. It occurs to you that you don’t know how old he is. You could estimate, from when the Clone Wars were occurring, and get an accurate range. Mid to late thirties? A few years on you, then. Maybe even ten. You resolve to ask him, when he’s done telling you about his past.

“I was the smallest. The weakest,” he’s saying, and it seems like he’s smiling at the memory. 

“I don't believe you.” _Your_ Mandalorian, the runt of the pack? If he had been the weak one, what were the others like? 

Din nods. "I was." 

He recalls his nickname; _vaar'ika_. But his skill with a blaster came naturally. It was the only thing that made the other foundlings respect him. As he grew older, old enough to earn money to sponsor the youngest foundlings, he had a new moniker; _kad'la sur'haai. Sharp eye._

Now _that_ sounds like the Din Djarin you know. 

It had taken him years of grueling work, but he had become a respected member of the Tribe. With respect came freedom, and it wasn't long before he was taking bounty offers from a man he'd met on Nevarro. Bounty hunting offered danger and credits in equal amounts. He'd bought the _Razor Crest_ with the earnings from his first job. Since then, he's had his share of memorable events as her pilot. 

"Two favorites in particular." 

The sky is lightening from black to purple now as he continues. It doesn't feel like you've been out here for hours, but dawn is threatening to approach. 

"Is one of them finding Grem?" you ask. 

Din nods, prodding at the dying pile of embers in front of you. "Guess the other?" 

You rack your brain, but your thoughts are moving in slow motion as drowsiness settles in. Staying up so long is finally starting to take its toll, it seems. 

"Well, I'd taken a bounty for this Twi'lek thief. Seems she'd holed up on this dusty little planet called Cantonica." 

And with that, you know exactly what he's talking about. 

"Did some scouting. Seemed she'd gotten a job at the local bar, so I went to check it out. I walked in and found you."

He's looking right at you, not giving you anywhere to go. You know that nerfherder has to have the most self-satisfied look on his face, watching you blush.

"You looked _so_ out of place, pet. Too sweet. Too kind. Too young." 

" _Din_ ," you groan, covering your face with your hands. 

But he only chuckles, a low sound warping through the modulator. His arm wraps around your shoulder, pulling you close. You think he'd stop there, but the man is merciless. A killer. 

"Big set of blue eyes. You bounced when you walked over to talk to me. When the thief and I got into it, you didn't hide or cower. Just watched. Like it fascinated you." 

"Are you about done?" 

"Almost." He butts his head into yours, the movement affectionate if painful. 

"What got me was the Mando'a. You spoke it better than I could. I knew I had to know you better. To see if you'd be the right fit for us." 

"I'm glad I chose to study it, then." 

" _I'm_ glad I took the bounty on that Twi'lek thief." 

"Shassi," you remind him. 

"Right, right. You knew her. Maybe I'll... shake her hand someday."

Now even _he_ sounds tired. Din doesn't sleep through the night like you do -- if you get up to go to the washroom, he's often lying awake. He likes to tease that you're the first to fall asleep and the last to wake up, but you're certain that he's the one with the sleep problems. It's possible he's been awake even longer than you have.

A silence stretches on for several minutes, and you feel him relax against your body. 

"Din?" 

"Mm?" Comes his sleepy, muttered answer. 

You knew it; he _had_ been dozing off under that helmet. 

"It's been a long day. Let's get some rest before the kid wakes up." 

\------

You’ve only been curled up in the cot for a few hours when you hear the telltale signs of Grem stirring from his cradle. So much for a full recharge. Still, a few hours is better than nothing at all -- and a little caf won’t hurt. You slap for the door button, hitting it after one or two tries. There’s something _different_ this morning, even less room than usual. It’s only when you open your eyes that you realize that Din is still there. That alone is a testament to his exhaustion; he’s always in the cockpit by now.

And he’s not wearing his helmet. And you’re staring at the back of his head. 

_Oh shit shit shit shit --_

Before your mind can register that you can’t be doing this, you’ve seen it. After all this time, you’ve finally fucked up. Too late, you sit up in the cot and screw your eyes shut, adrenaline pounding. To make matters worse, Grem is getting more insistent -- the open door isn’t helping. Din stirs in his sleep next to you, muttering something in his sleep about _the kid_ and _just a minute_. If you leave him sleeping, will he know that you saw? Or will he assume that you were smart enough to close your eyes when you felt him next to you? _He’d be thinking too much of me_. 

Either way, you can’t stay here. 

Moving as carefully as you can, you inch off of the cot. And though it’s wrong, forbidden, every impulse is telling you to turn around and look at the face of the sleeping man behind you. The man you’re privileged to know, to love. The man whose face you can never see. Biting down hard on your lip, you close the door. Knowing the color of his hair -- brown, dark, falling in waves -- would have to be enough. 

When you pop open the cradle, your hands are shaking. Grem blinks up at you, all big eyes and hidden wisdom. 

“Booah,” he says, putting his hand on your wrist. 

“I’m okay, buddy.” You pull him up, grateful for his familiar weight in your arms. “Just had a scare.” 

His hand stays on you, clinging, as if to reassure. It reminds you of the day you met him, when he'd healed your blaster wound. He'd clung to you so hard that not even Din could move him. This touch is lighter, but it's obvious that he still wants to help. You feel love flood your chest, looking down at him. Where would you be without this strange creature in your life? 

"You know what?" You tap a finger on Grem's little nose. "Let's have breakfast outside." 

You doubt that Din will sleep through the noise of the ramp sliding open -- no amount of oil would make that thing quiet. A change of scenery would be nice, though. No point in sitting inside the _Crest_ when the whole planet is out there. 

Climbing the ladder alone, you leave Grem on the lower deck. Grabbing food won't take long. You start the caf and throw a few simple things together, hoping that the little troublemaker can manage to hold still in the two minutes it'll take you to finish up. Surely he won't go anywhere, right?

But that's wishful thinking. Right as you think you've succeeded, there's an echoing _clang_ from below. You cringe -- Din is _definitely_ awake now. Two seconds later, the caf beeps, merrily signalling that it's finished brewing. _Yeah, I got it, thanks._ Muttering a halfhearted curse, you grab your things and head back to see what damage the little scoundrel could have done. 

It turns out that after knocking over some spare artillery, Grem ran straight to his dad. Din is propped against the wall of your tiny room, cradling his naughty _ad'ika_. 

Something in you is disappointed to see him wear the helmet, but you push it down. _That was a one time thing. An accident._

"Couldn't let me sleep in?" His voice is rough with drowsiness, but full of affection as he addresses his kid. 

" _Booahh_ ," Grem gurgles back, kicking his legs in excitement. 

"You're a little womp-rat." 

"Batuu."

Din turns to you, straightening a little. 

"Morning, petal." His voice is different, tighter, and you know that he knows. That you could've seen. 

"Good morning." You'd meant to say something more flippant, to lighten the mood. His behavior is triggering you to follow suit in awkwardness. _He knows that you know that he knows_. Fuck, just _say_ something. Even Grem is looking between you, sensing that something is different.

There's a pause so palpable that it feels like you're choking on it. 

"Did you --"

"I --" 

You speak at the same time, stopping short when you realize it. When he stays silent, you press on. 

"I didn't see your face, if that's why you're worried." You put a hand to your mouth, biting at the thumbnail -- a habit you haven't had in years. Across the galaxy, you can hear your mother shrieking in protest. 

He relaxes. "I -- yes." He sighs, running his bare hand over Grem's ears. "I'm...sorry. Overslept." 

"Don't be sorry for that." You set the breakfast tray down and sit on the end of the cot. "But I _did_ see the back of your head. Is there -- are there rules about that?" 

He's silent for a moment, considering this. "I don't know. The Way only mentions seeing the face." 

"Still too close for comfort, though. Right?" 

"Right." 

You wonder if this means he'll go back to sleeping in his chair in the cockpit, and your heart drops. Maybe it's a silly thing, since you see him every day, but sleeping next to him has become a huge comfort. 

"Too bad you weren't taken in by a more lenient clan of Mandalorians," you joke. "I could be looking at your face right now." 

He takes too long to respond to that. 

"What?" 

A single word, but there's an edge to it that you haven't heard since he'd addressed the thieves on Cantonica. A danger.

"You know, clans that don't follow The Way of the Mandalore to a T? Um…" 

It feels like the _beroya_ you know has been replaced with another person. His hand stills on Grem’s ears, going back to his side to clench in a fist. 

“What...are you talking about?” 

Suddenly you know how his bounties feel. What’s changed? _Why?_ Minutes ago he was warm, kind. Now, the temperature might as well have dropped twenty degrees. 

"As far as I remember, the only clan that still follows this are the Children of the Watch. That's w-what I mean." You fill the silence with useless words, but nothing changes. "I could be looking at your face." 

"Why," he begins, in a tone that is all Mandalorian and no Din, "have you never told me this?" 

"It...it never came up." You stare at your feet. 

" _It never came up._ Brilliant," he spits. You flinch, tears welling in your eyes. Grem is shuffling over to you now, scared. He doesn't know what's happening and you don't either, really.

"Din, I'm... sorry, I --" 

"I don't want to hear it. How long have you been here? You could have at least _mentioned_ it." Every line of him is cold fury, a stranger in familiar clothes. 

It feels like your throat is the size of a pinhole as you struggle not to burst into tears. You don't know where all this anger is coming from. He _never asked you_ anything about _any of it_. 

_Yeah, screw this_. 

Under your fear, your sadness, comes a layer of your own anger. You don't have to sit here and take this. It's inevitable that you're going to cry, but not without telling him what an asshole he's being. 

Holding Grem tight to your body, you force yourself to look at him. You're not sure why he’s reacting this way, but you do _not_ deserve to have it taken out on you. 

"First of all, I thought you'd at least care that you're scaring Grem to death," you say shakily.

The kid is fighting tears of his own, burying his head in your stomach. Poor guy is probably even more traumatized by watching his _buir_ fight one another. "If you're going to belittle me, at least do it where he can't hear you." 

Din stays silent, crossing his arms and looking away. Tears are pouring down your cheeks now, but you don't try and hide it. 

"Second -- it's _your_ kriffing culture, not mine. I'm not obligated to -- to teach you." 

You'd meant to stop there, but something too honest and raw rips itself from your mouth next. "And do y-you know how hard it is to be with someone you never really _s-see_?" 

You have to breathe through hiccupping sobs to get it out, the thing that hurts to say but is worse to feel. "I want to know you more than _anything_. But I can't." 

"Miona," he says finally, his own voice hoarse. 

"Save it."

" _Miona--_ " 

Cradling Grem, you stand and leave, activating the ramp. You wait for Din to call out again, to stop you, but it never comes. 

So much for paradise. 

\-----

Hours pass in the deceptive sunshine. You spend them trying to take Grem’s mind -- and yours -- off of the fight. At first, you’re reluctant to take him far from the _Crest_. But as you run out of things to entertain him with, you find yourself open to the idea of wandering. If this planet is as safe as Din says it is, then what’s the problem? 

_Not like he's out here worrying about you_. 

“Hey, buddy,” you say to Grem, crouching down. He’s pulling up grass blades, splitting each one into pieces before throwing them into the air like confetti. You guess he figured it was the most chaotic thing he could think of to do, since he didn’t like the taste of it. “I saw a lake when we were landing. Wanna go find it? We might see some frogs.” 

You think back to yesterday morning, watching the planet’s scenery go by out the cockpit’s window. After the drop, Din had flown west before reaching the landing point. So that just means you need to head east until you find the lake. 

Grem stretches his arms up, asking to be lifted. 

“Alright, little man.” Glancing back at the _Crest_ one last time, you adjust him on your hip and start walking. You don't need Din to have a good time here. You'll prove it. 

The further you get from the ship, the more creatures you start to see. _They must not be used to seeing anything mechanical,_ you think as two little kiros birds flit above you. So strange, to think that this planet is nearly untouched. To your left, you can spot more of the green-skinned creatures like the one that Din caught yesterday. They seem to like staying in the trees; or maybe it’s because you’re here. 

Slaps of water against the shore let you know that you’re close. Ahead of you, the ground slopes -- the lake is below you. Grem must know that it’s near, too, because he wriggles out of your arms. You have to grin, watching him shuffle as fast as he can to find it. _Maybe he hears frogs,_ you think, watching him trip over the hem of his little outfit. Unphased, he gets right back up and keeps going. He stops on the edge of the hill, waiting for you to catch up. 

It’s...gorgeous. Ringed by trees, the lake shimmers in the noonday sun, showing off ripples in the light wind. A few creatures that look like goats are drinking on the shore nearby -- they yip and dart off when they spot you. Pebbles melt into sand where the water hits the shoreline. The water is teal, and you wonder if it’s warm enough to wade in. The sight of it all makes you miss Lah'mu's beaches. 

The kid looks up at you, asking permission to run down to the water. Sweet that he thinks to, after so long cooped up in the ship. Or he's scared to go alone. 

"Yeah, go crazy. I'm right behind you, _ad'ika_." 

That's all the assurance he needs. You stay close behind as Grem works his way down the hill. It's hard not to picture him tripping with every overexcited step he takes. In the middle of a fight with Din or not, you'll be the one to blame if you bring the poor kid back all battered and bruised. You can breathe again when he reaches level ground. 

"Not too far in the water, okay?" you caution. "No further than this." Making sure that he watches, you dip your arm in the lake up to the wrist. _Oof. Not freezing, but cool enough to be a surprise_ , you think. Sand swirls around the disrupted water, glittering. 

"Ehbuh." 

"I'll take that as a yes."

\-----

_This was a good idea,_ you decide, listening to Grem's excited shrieks and splashes. Once he'd seen the tiny minnows darting through the shallows, it was game over. Catching them -- then eating them -- is all he's interested in. He doesn't even know that it's long past lunchtime, such is the thrill of this new game. You haven't seen any frogs, but he doesn't seem to mind. If there are any on this planet, they're smart enough not to cross Grem's path. 

You've got your butt parked in the sand, far enough from the shore to avoid splashes but close enough to swoop in if there's a crisis. (Most of the time, the crisis is him losing a minnow and getting upset about it.) The sun feels nice on your skin, a friendly warmth instead of the killer heat that seared you on your desert planet. It should be perfect; this is exactly why you came here. 

But it's all wrong. You're holding it together for Grem's sake, but you wish you didn't have to. A million thoughts and emotions fight for dominance in your mind, all ugly. Fear, worry, anger, confusion. Overwhelming _loneliness_. Din should be here, helping the kid catch fish. Or beside you, providing his silent but needed companionship. 

You look over at your little green gremlin, oblivious to what you're feeling for once. He's got his garment rolled up to his knobbly knees, but he's still managed to get soaking wet. In front of him, he holds a tiny fish in a floating orb of water. His expression is so innocent, so curious. 

It occurs to you that this could be one of the last times you get to see him. If you have to part ways -- all because of a stupid fight you don’t understand -- then this could be it. From here, it’ll be tense moments spent in the _Razor Crest_ , then a goodbye before you’re dumped on yet another backwater planet. If Din detests you now, you doubt he’ll keep his promise to take you all the way back to Lah’mu. 

_Why_ had Din reacted so poorly to what you'd said? Should you have gone back and tried to make amends, instead of running off? The air had been too tense, your emotions too big. 

Had he not _known_ there are other Mandalorians out there -- scarce as they may be now -- living a different lifestyle? _Shit._ That’s it, isn’t it? It makes sense for a group that would practically kidnap a child from a war site to also lie to them for their entire upbringing. It’s a fucking cult, is what it is. You clench a handful of sand and watch it squeeze through the gaps of your fingers, resenting what you can’t change. 

Now his reaction makes sense. It doesn’t take the sting off of being yelled at, though. And you had meant every word you’d said in retaliation, whether he had wanted to hear it or not. Maker, you wish you had never said anything -- about how you could have been seeing his face. This is your fault. If this costs you _everything_ , all over one stupid comment, you don’t know what you’ll do. What would life even be like without your _beroya_ in it? 

From where Grem is playing, the splashing stops. Looking up to see why, your breath halts on its way out of your throat. Din’s standing right there, on the hill. Intimidating as the day you met him, but for different reasons. Even though you’re supposed to be angry, you can’t help but feel your chest tighten a little. A part of you is still holding on, no matter what. He’s _yours_ , in a way that no one else has been. You are his. 

Still, you’re nervous as he trudges down the incline, taking his time. Grem doesn’t run over like he normally would; just stands knee-deep in the lake water to see what his _buir_ is doing. It breaks your heart a little to see him hesitate. 

When Din’s close enough to stand beside you, you get to your feet, awkward with stiffness.

“Can I have a minute?” he asks, helmet tilted away. “With the kid?” 

You can't refuse him something like that. With a nod, you walk out of earshot to the trees. Hopefully, he’ll be apologizing. _Or telling Grem all about how they have to ditch you now._ You’re not sure if your thumbnail can take much more of this abuse. 

From your vantage point, you see him crouch down in the shallows with Grem. You can’t hear a word of what he’s telling the little guy, but it’s clear that Grem's listening intently. The kid’s so still, so serious in his waterlogged garment, that you have to laugh despite the tension. Little _dinii_ is only that calm when he sleeps. Din reaches out to ruffle his ears, and it seems that with this simple gesture, all is right again. Once your Mandalorian has his kid back in his favor -- and back in his arms -- the pair turn to look at you. That must be your cue to join them. 

“Everything okay?” you make an effort to keep your tone normal when you've walked back, for Grem’s sake. 

“Fine,” he says, still not quite looking at you. “I’m -- I’m going to take him back to the ship. Are you coming?” 

You consider it -- following him back, acting like none of this ever happened. As tempting as it is, yourself better. You love him, but you have your pride. 

“I’ll stay, thanks.” The sun is still up, after all. You can hold out for a few more hours if you have to. _Tell me you’re sorry, Din Djarin._

He shifts from one foot to the other. “Then...can I come back?” 

Kriff, you’re softening. He doesn't want to take you back to the ship to pretend this didn't happen; he just wants you back with him. _Damn it, Din. I'm trying to be angry with you._

Sighing, you feel your stubbornness crumble. “Yes.” 

\------

When Din returns, he’s alone. The sun is flirting with the lake’s edge, sending blinding hues of orange and red over the water. 

“Where’s Grem?” you ask. You’ve long abandoned your shoes, sitting bare-footed in the grass. 

“Asleep. Little guy's wiped out. Must have been having fun with those minnows.” 

“That’s an understatement,” you scoff, and for a minute, it’s like there’s nothing wrong at all. You could both be in the cockpit right now, at the end of a long day. Conversation about the kid feels natural, easy. After all, he’s precious to both of you. Mutual ground. 

With the tension lightened, he sits down beside you -- still keeping his distance. “What have you been doing, out here by yourself?” He’s finally looking at you again, his tone soft like he could scare you away. 

_Worrying. Crying._ “Thinking,” you reply. 

“About what?”

“About earlier.” You tuck your knees to your chest, watching the water lap at the shoreline. Like you could think about anything else. 

Din sighs, a tired sound. “Miona. Will you hear me out? Let me explain?” 

What choice do you have? There's no fixing this until he does. “Go ahead.” 

It’s a long time before he speaks again; you know he’s thinking about the perfect way to say what he means. _Living alone on a ship doesn’t make you a conversational master,_ he’d said not too long ago. Though your heart beats faster the longer it takes for him to say something, you try to be patient. Speaking without thinking is what got you both into this mess. 

“I didn’t know.” Din says at last, and there’s a rawness to his words that hits you in the chest. There is rarely this much emotion in his voice. Honesty, vulnerability, anger. He feels it all, and you feel for him. “Didn’t know about...the others. 

“But I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I'm...sorry,” he continues, earnest. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him watching your face, intent. “For hurting you, and the kid. I just -- wasn't thinking. I was...conflicted.”

_Conflicted?_ “Why?” 

“Do you think I like having this helmet on, all the time? You think I don’t…” his hand smooths itself down your thigh, igniting goosebumps as it goes, “struggle?” 

Your heart does a little backflip to feel him touching you again. “You’ve never mentioned it.” 

“I’ve been -- guilty,” he admits. “Thinking the way that I have. Imagining how much easier life would be, if only _you_ could see me. It felt like betraying everything I know. But to learn that most don’t even _follow_ The Way --” he makes an exasperated sound low in his throat “I -- I don’t know what to do. Part of me is relieved. Part of me is repulsed.” 

Now you turn to face him fully, and what he's saying makes sense. 

“Din,” you say, reaching for his hand. He laces your fingers immediately, like he’s been waiting to do it all day. “I understand. I shouldn’t have said that thing -- that was stupid, I’m sorry --” 

“You don’t have to apologize, I’m the one who should --”

“ _Din_ ,” you insist, laughing a little. “Let me finish.” He quiets, squeezing your hand. You squeeze back, thinking of what else you need to tell him. 

“And I’m sorry about what I said about being with someone I never get to see. I should have been thinking about _your_ side of it, too. Being with you is _not_ hard, Din. Even if we’re fighting, it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” 

“Sweetheart.” One word, packed with all his affection for you. It hits you right in the gut. He takes your chin in his hand, wanting to look at you in the most direct way he can. “You make this bounty hunter soft.” 

“Not too soft,” you quip. “Grem and I still need to eat.” 

“There’s my girl,” he says fondly. “my _mirdala uram_.” 

You lean in to touch your forehead to his helmet, the closest you can get to a kiss without removing it. "How about we stop talking?" You run your fingers down his chest, hoping he catches the meaning. "Make the most of our alone time?" 

"Mm…" you can practically feel the low purr in his throat at your proposal. "I'd like that."

His hand travels down, slow, to your bare legs. On its path back up, he lifts your tunic, leaving you exposed for the world to see. You’ll admit it; after last night, you were hoping that something like this would happen. And on this isolated planet, did you really _need_ panties? 

Din doesn’t seem to think so. His breath quickens when he realizes that he’s looking right at your exposed mound, and he groans when you spread your legs for him. 

“What’s the matter?” you curl a middle finger over your entrance, making a show of it. He’s gone stock-still, watching. Teasing him, you rub slow strokes up and down your slit. Wetness gathers on your digits at the light stimulation. He draws in another ragged breath. 

“Didn’t expect that,” Din replies, putting his hand on top of yours. “Can I --?” His palm is so much bigger, fingers overstretching. You nudge your hips into his hand, consenting. 

Moving as gracefully as a predator, he shifts to sit in front of you. A strangled sound escapes the modulator when he feels your wet heat on his skin. Eager to please, he works a finger inside you, stretching and stroking your walls. 

You _clench_ , opening your legs wider for him. He takes it as an invitation to press deeper, but that’s not what you need right now. “Din,” you breathe, _tingling_ with desire, “I want your mouth.” 

Inside you, his finger pauses in its curling motion. He doesn't withdraw it, only tilts his head at you, breathing heavily. You glance down to see if your statement's affected him -- and are rewarded with the bulge of his cock twitching through his pants. 

“Then close your eyes, petal. Sit back.” 

It makes you glad to know that he trusts you not to look. Even with this morning’s slip-up, and his confession to struggling with the Way, you would _never_ peek without his permission. Like he said yesterday -- you respect him. 

Anxious to feel his hot breath on your cunt, you do as he says. You lie flat on the grass, spreading your legs further when he nudges them. There's one last look at the darkening sky, at Din, before you let your eyes slide shut. The _hiss_ of air indicates that his helmet is off, and your body reacts to the sound in a Pavlovian way. 

With no ship around you and no cover of night, you're incredibly aware of how _exposed_ this leaves the two of you. And for some reason...that makes you more excited. 

Having only your hearing and sense of touch to guide you, you listen as Din sheds his armor. He's taking so long that when his lips finally touch your neck, you gasp, not expecting him there. It feels heavenly to have his mouth on your skin again, after the fear of losing him hung so heavy on your mind today. His quiet laugh in your ear might as well be a sexual act in itself. 

"Did I scare you?" he murmurs, taking your earlobe between his teeth. 

"You're...far sneakier than you have a right to be." 

"Then you need to be paying closer attention." You feel him climbing over you. His body is hovering inches from yours, hesitating. Then he pulls your tunic up further, exposing your belly, your breasts. The material hangs loosely around your neck, hiding nothing. "I think we could do without this, don't you?" 

Lifting your head, you wrestle it off and toss it away. Now you're fully naked for him, and the little sound he makes to see you that way in the grass is worth the exposed feeling. 

" _Much_ better," he decides. Seconds later, his hot breath is ghosting over the peak of your nipple, followed quickly by his tongue. You jolt as he moans around the hardening nub of your breast, sucking and massaging a sensation that goes _directly_ between your legs. 

"Shit that's good --" you gasp, arching into it. "Din, I -- please keep going." 

His only reply is a knowing _hmm_ as the tip of his tongue caresses your nipple into a pointed bud. You whine when he finally pulls away, but he's only going to your other breast, sucking marks deep into the skin. 

"You like this, sweetheart?" he whispers to your chest, nosing his way down your trembling abdomen. _Oh god oh yes down there faster faster yes_. 

"Y-yeah," is your brilliant reply. There's nothing like the anticipation seconds before his mouth is on you. It wipes you completely blank in a way that traditional sex never quite can. Maybe it's the cleverness of his tongue, or the way the orgasms overtake you. It could be that you don't have to do anything but _lie_ there. All that you're certain of is how much you want it. 

"I know you do." His breath ghosts lower, teasing over your inner thighs. "So _wet_ for me, fuck, I can't wait to taste you." Din presses a kiss to your hip, and you shiver. "Could have my mouth on you...all day." His voice is rough, and you know his words are true; you're not the only one who finds this arousing. 

"Please…" you ask, tilting your hips up, begging. You can feel your own slick soaking your thighs from how long he's taunted you. You're grabbing at handfuls of grass, twisting the blades from the ground. There's a deep _burning_ in your core, a need to come. How much longer is he going to draw this out? 

" _Please_ what, lovely girl? Tell me." His voice is all fire and honey. He wants specifics, to hear you beg for exactly what you want. 

It's a game you love to hate. Who is he to demand that you _think_ , when all your body wants to do is _feel_? 

"Want your mouth on my pussy," you gasp out, too eager to care how it sounds. "Want you to -- make me come." 

"See, that wasn't so hard," he praises, right before tonguing a long, slow line over your eager slit. 

_Fuck_ fuck _yes, Din more pleeeease --_

The sensation of his breath and tongue on your cunt is overwhelming -- too much and not enough all at once. 

" _Alright_ , sweetheart," Din answers, obviously thinking that this is funny. You hadn't even known that you'd said it out loud until he'd replied. "Relax." 

Using one hand to hold back your labia, Din tongues his way around your clit. Kriff, you can't believe he's never done this with anyone but you; he’s more skilled than any past partner. His mouth is working miracles on the oversensitive area. Din's hands spread your thighs even further, each planted firmly in the supple skin. 

He licks you like every inch is worth tasting. Taking his time, he massages circles from around the hood of your clitoris all the way to the bottom of your slit, each movement deliberate. Your toes curl as he dares a lick over the clit itself, coiling the pressure of impending orgasm tighter. 

Whimpering, you feel your thighs tremble. You want this _fuck_ you want this -- 

"Din, come _on_ ," you whine through gritted teeth. "I want to come, I'm so close --" 

His breath quickens on your exposed cunt. "Then come, sweetheart. Come on my mouth, want to taste you through it --" 

And with that, his tongue is back on your clit, pressing _hard_ stimulation, flicking the swollen nub until your body can't take it. The coil unravels, slow at first and then fast fast _fast_ , stars exploding behind your closed eyes as you come harder than you ever have in recent memory. 

"Please, _gedet'ye, osik elek! Elek, Din, fuck --_ " 

He's not letting up; his tongue presses harder than ever, and a second orgasm comes right on the ebb of the last. You _sob_ into the night, legs kicking out. Your hands reach for him, finding handfuls of that soft brown hair. He purrs as you plant your fingers in it, trying not to pull any out as the aftershocks of two orgasms make their way through you. 

"Shit," you whisper. Lying there, your body feels completely spent, humming like the engine of a well-oiled ship. "Din -- oh my stars." 

You feel him pull away from the vee of your legs, shifting in the grass to lie beside you. "Was that a suitable apology?" 

"Hm…" as if you needed to think about it. "I'm going to go with yes." 

"I had to check." 

Nestling closer, you let him put an arm around you. A comfortable silence falls, save for the water lapping the shore and his breaths on your cheek. Things were finally back to how they should be. A few hours had felt like a lifetime when they were spent at odds with one another. Now there's nothing to -- _wait_. 

You still haven't asked about the holocall. 

The knowledge twists in your gut like poison. Bringing it up could start another argument, but keeping something hidden between you feels even worse. 

Din notices the change in your breathing before you have a chance to decide what you want to say. 

"Something wrong?" His fingers skirt the base of your throat. Sometimes he's _too_ good at his profession, when you wish he'd turn that portion of himself off. 

But there's no hiding now. No more half-truths or deceptions. 

"I overheard your holocall," you admit, thankful at least that you don't have to make eye contact. 

A beat of quiet. Then, "I thought so." His tone isn't angry, just thoughtful. 

"You... you're not mad?" 

"Why would I be mad, _sarad_? It was only a business call. What did you think it was?" Din's fingers go to your cheek, caressing the curve of your face. You lean into it, relieved. 

"It was the middle of the night, and -- you sounded worried. I couldn't hear everything. I thought we were...I don't know. In trouble, maybe." 

Kriff, you could kick yourself. You should have said something sooner. All this worry, and it had been a normal call with a business partner. 

"Bounties worth taking are getting harder to come by. That's all." 

"Okay, okay. But no more secrets -- no matter how small. That goes for both of us," you insist. Living in constant worry was _not_ how you wanted to go through life. You did enough of that tending to a bounty hunter and his foundling. 

One more beat of silence before he answers you. "Of course, sweetheart." His lips brush your cheek. "No more secrets."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din and Miona have their first fight. But you know what's good about fights? The makeup sex. :P
> 
> And we get to learn more about Din's backstory, something that I've been trying to work in for chapters and chapters now. Sometimes the characters have their own ideas of what needs to happen in the story, but Din finally decided it was time.
> 
> In regards to Din and Miona's ages - I used the offical Star Wars timelines of the Clone Wars, the Galactic Civil War, and the Battle of Yavin to determine Din's. He's around 35, born in 26 BBY (Before the Battle of Yavin). I know this makes him younger than Pedro Pascal, but it's the only age range that makes sense for him to be a child in the Clone Wars. As for Miona, she's slightly younger at 27, born in 18 BBY. I made sure this lines up with the age her father is drafted into the Galactic Civil War. At first she was going to be younger than that, but with how long she was in college for xenolinguistics and then stranded on Cantonica, this age made the most sense.
> 
> I AM COMMITTED TO THE LORE, PEOPLE.
> 
> Hope you liked! Stay safe and stay well. 3  
> -WickedScribbles
> 
> Mando'a - mandowords dot tumblr dot com
> 
> sarad - flower, bloom  
> ad - son, daughter  
> vaar'ika - pip-squeak, runt  
> kad'la - sharp  
> sur'haai - eye  
> ad'ika - little one, son, daughter  
> beroya - bounty hunter  
> buir - mother, father  
> dinii - lunatic  
> mirdala - clever, intelligent, intellectual, smart  
> uram - mouth  
> gedet'ye - please  
> osik - shit  
> elek - yes

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Hi, guys! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Star in the Dust. I've been very fascinated with The Mandalorian lately, and that's led me to writing this. Mando'a is such a cool language, too; I hope they explore it more in coming seasons.
> 
> Speaking of seasons, and the timeline for this story, I kind of want it to take place between season one and two. We'll see if that changes, though.
> 
> I gave the main character a name, though it's written in second person, because I can't stand when a decently written fic breaks the immersion by referring to the main character as "Y/N". Just terrible. I've never written an OC in a fanfiction before, either - let me know if she's any good. Haha. I'm rather attached to her already.
> 
> Mando'a Translations:
> 
> beroya - bounty hunter
> 
> osik - shit
> 
> gar - you
> 
> jorhaa'ir - speak
> 
> Vor entye - thank you (literally, "I accept a debt")
> 
> Mando'a - Mandalorian language
> 
> These were all found at mandoa dot org. Such a helpful and thorough site! Highly recommended if you too are writing a fic or just think the language is neato. 
> 
> See you next time!
> 
> \- WickedScribbles


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